


Baker's Choice

by AnnaMcb24



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: All of the Losers need therapy, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Scorpio PROVE ME WRONG, F/M, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia, Stress Baking, The Nailed It AU no one wanted or asked for, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaMcb24/pseuds/AnnaMcb24
Summary: It's all Bill's fault really. Bill's fault and his therapist's fault and his mother's fault and his ex-wife's fault. Basically, it's everyone except Eddie's fault that he's auditioned to have his baking skills mocked on international television.AKA the Nailed It AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 17
Kudos: 91





	Baker's Choice

**Author's Note:**

> The credit for this plot bunny goes to Maggie (nordpdc62 on AO3), because everything sucks right now, but binge watching Nailed It on Netflix helps. And thank you Lizzie (coffeeandcheesecake on AO3) for running edits on this. You called me out and I deserved it.
> 
> Some of the filming scenes in this are pretty wildly inaccurate. I tried to keep it mostly as realistic as possible (within my own fairly limited experience), but, for the sake of storytelling, some of it had to get pretty inaccurate. I apologize if those moments are too glaring. I wasn't sure how to make make the story work otherwise.
> 
> SPECIFIC TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Discussions of child abuse (specifically Eddie's childhood)  
> Everyone could use some therapy here, but Eddie is really on the edge  
> Some mild homophobia  
> Some mild biphobia

He auditions as a joke more than anything.

It’s Bill’s idea. Bill, who has been Eddie’s taste-tester for the last month or so since Eddie started baking at his therapist’s suggestion.

“You need a hobby, Eddie,” Dr. Martin said, tapping his pen annoyingly against his notebook. “You need something that you do that’s just for you. Something where it doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad and there’s no one judging you. It’s good for you. Helps reduce your stress.”

And so Eddie started baking. He already watched an obscene amount of Food Channel before he and Myra got divorced, as well as a lot of Tasty videos on Facebook while on the toilet at work. There was just something so soothing about it -- watching someone start with just a collection of basic ingredients and, through a series of manipulations, wind up with a cheesecake or a chocolate eclair or some other form of sugary goodness.

Myra said he was a naturally mean person -- always one bad turn away from being outright cruel. Cooking competitions also gave him an excuse to burn off some of the acidic nastiness that always seemed to be bubbling under his skin. So he muttered curses at  _ Chopped _ contestants instead of his wife and laughed at the different circles of hell on display in  _ Cutthroat Kitchen _ .

Anyway, he got divorced and then he started seeing Dr. Martin and then he told Eddie to get a hobby, so he started baking. Great. Step one complete.

The only problem now was the ghost of his mother who always seemed to be present just over his shoulder, hissing at him all the dangers of eating too much sugar. From heart disease to weight gain to diabetes to cancer to kidney failure -- a never-ending laundry list waiting for him the moment he reached for a second sugar cookie.

Step two: find someone to eat the other twenty-three cookies he made per batch.

Bill was an obvious solution. They were already living together. Bill was either kind or foolish enough to remain Eddie’s friend after he disappeared for the last five years of his marriage, which meant he was the one who Eddie had to hit up for a place to live after Myra threw his possessions to the curb.

Being a best-selling author meant that Bill’s house wasn’t by any definition small. Smaller, maybe, than might be best for two fully grown men who kept very different schedules. But Bill hardly ever touched his kitchen and there was a full bedroom with an en suite on the top floor that he was more than happy to rent out to Eddie for zero dollars and zero cents a month.

“It’s just to have company,” Bill would say every time Eddie offered. “Don’t worry about it. Just give me a hand when it’s tax season.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ accountant, Bill,” Eddie would invariably respond, shoving the check back in his wallet. “And I’m not a charity case. I actually have a real adult job.”

And Bill would sort of laugh and say, “Yeah, but I have the fantasy one. Don’t worry about it, Eddie, really.”

So it makes sense to ask Bill to eat the results of his attempts at relaxation, even when they don’t turn out quite as expected. Even when Audra is at the house, there are times when not all the baked goods get eaten and Eddie isn’t so obtuse that he doesn’t know what that means.

But  _ sometimes _ he actually makes something really good. Like the strawberry cheesecake he made after a particularly shitty day at the office when he really needed to break up graham crackers with a rolling pin. Or the thumbprint cookies he made during a bout of insomnia.

The only problem is that everything he makes ends up looking like, for lack of a better term --

“Like a fucking crime scene,” Bill laughs, taking a bite of the red velvet cupcakes Eddie’s made that Friday night. “Seriously, why did you ice them like this?” he asks, picking at the hard frosting which has torn up the top of the cupcakes.

“Oh, like you’re an expert…  _ Bill _ ,” Eddie snaps back, like his name is such an insult. Sometimes, when he’s really annoyed with Bill the instinct returns to use Bill’s schoolyard nickname:  _ Stuttering Bill _ .

Cruel, really, to give a kid an insulting nickname that he can barely even say.

God, what is  _ wrong _ with him?

“It’s not my fault,” he says and bites into his own. It’s fine. It’s dry, but it’s fine. “Your housekeeper’s the one who put the thing of icing in the fridge. Who does that, anyway?”

“My housekeeper apparently,” Bill says, with his mouth full. The combination with his sometimes halting speech is tough to parse at first, but Eddie’s known Bill since fourth grade. He gets it at this point.

“I guess! Anyway, it was too hard to spread over the cupcakes properly so now it looks like this.” Eddie swipes a finger across the inside of the icing tin before throwing it away. The ghost of his dearly departed mother gasps in horror as he licks his finger. “Who cares, anyway? They taste good.”

“They are good,” Bill concedes, grabbing a second. His figure has become distinctly more “dad bod”-esque since Eddie started making Bill eat all his experiments. “Kinda dry, though.”

“Like you could do any better,” Eddie says, nastily. Bill nods, which is kinder than Eddie deserves.

Bill shoves the second cupcake into his mouth and goes to the stainless steel fridge. He holds out a beer and gives Eddie a questioning look.

“I mean, yeah,” he says, taking the Corona from Bill’s hand. The cool glass makes the remaining stickiness of his hands all the more obvious.

He sits at the granite-topped island and looks at the plate of cupcakes. The tops are a bit ripped up from the cold icing. He probably should’ve microwaved it or something, but it was already done and he was trying  _ really _ hard not to give a fuck.

Bill grabs a bottle opener from one of the drawers and sits across from Eddie.

“So, the other night, I had dinner with Ben and Bev,” he says, cracking open his bottle and reaching out for Eddie’s. Eddie hands it over. “Apparently Bev’s doing a guest spot on this one TV show,  _ Nailed It _ .”

“Do I know these people?” Eddie asks and takes a sip of the Corona. He’s never had much of a stomach for beer, which he remembers the moment it hits his taste buds. Disgusting.

He’s lucky that Bill is used to his particular brand of rudeness, because he barely blinks at Eddie’s question. “You met Ben. He was the architect that came by to take the old VCR that one time. Bev’s his girlfriend. Beverly Marsh, she’s a fashion… person… I don’t know.”

“Okay. Well, that’s cool, I guess.”

“Yeah, it’s like… It’s an amateur baking show.”

Eddie can smell when Bill’s up to something from a mile off. “Okay?”

Bill kind of laughs. “They just started trying to get contestants. He tried some of the… the long doughnuts that you made? Anyway, he said you should audition.”

“Oh Jesus, Bill.” Eddie almost drops his beer. “No.”

Bill puts his hands up like Eddie’s just pulled a gun on him. “It’s just an idea! I thought it might be fun. The whole thing is pretty laid back. Like, no one expects anyone to be perfect. It’s all about laughing at your mistakes and stuff. I watched an episode. It’s funny.”

“No, Bill.” Eddie takes another sip of his beer and immediately regrets it. Eventually, Bill takes another beer from the fridge and wanders off to his study and Eddie is left sitting at the table, watching condensation drip from his bottle.

His divorce papers finally went through a month ago and he’s been living with Bill for the last four. He was supposed to look for another place, but between lawyers and now alimony, he’s not sure where to start his search. At least moving in with Bill has shortened his commute. Part of him thinks that the daily drive from Riverside county to downtown Los Angeles was to blame for his divorce.

Six hours -- at least -- in the car. Every day. And then coming home to the smothering attentions of Myra. To his two bedroom house with zero-point-zero children and his slightly battered MacBook.

Too bad Myra checked his internet history.

Once he’s done cleaning up the kitchen, he climbs the stairs to the top floor.

It’s obvious that his room used to be an attic. The slope on the ceiling alone makes that apparent, but the whole interior has been refinished. Smooth plaster covering the walls and red-stained wood over the floors.The heavy four-post bed with its plush white comforter make the space look a bit like a hotel room. He makes that bed every morning and once a week the housekeeper comes by and makes it again wrong, but at least the linens get washed so he’s not sleeping with his face pressed to dusty pillowcases.

He didn’t have a lot to bring with him from his and Myra’s house. She picked out most of their furniture and, besides, she wasn’t about to let him back in the house. All he really has at this point are his clothes, a plastic tub full of his medication and a couple of his notebooks that she threw out on the lawn. His laptop was also there, but it broke against the pavement and he thinks Myra might’ve run over it a couple times. Vengeance against his virtual infidelity.

Bill lent him an old iPad and keyboard and that’s what he’s been using since, too nervous to blow money on a new computer. It’s probably for the best anyway. It’s honestly shocking that his credit card information hasn’t been stolen yet, given some of the crap he did on his old laptop.

It’s probably good that he’s trying to learn how to be alone.

But Eddie’s also stupid and sometimes his brain gets snagged on the same thought over and over. So that night he pulls up Netflix on the tablet and puts on the first episode of  _ Nailed It _ .

Because fuck Bill, that’s why.

***

“Hey, kind of a dick move saying I should audition to be on a show for shit bakers,” he says when Bill finally stumbles into the kitchen around eleven in the morning for coffee. Eddie’s been awake for the last five hours and, in an attempt not to obsess over the upcoming work week, has binged the entire rest of the show.

Bill looks so helplessly confused that Eddie almost feels bad, but he knows some of that is just Bill’s face. All soft features with a lumpy and prominent (though not unattractive) nose in the middle and bright blue eyes that Eddie’s sure were what first caught Audra’s eye. His rapidly graying hair is still rumpled from sleep as he rubs his hands over his face, knocking his glasses askew in the process.

“Sorry, what? I just woke up,” he says, as though it weren’t obvious, and walks to the cabinet to take down a mug.

“The show you said I should be on. I watched it,” Eddie responds. He’s aware that his hands are shaking a little. He’s on his third cup of the day already. Dr. Martin will probably have something to say about that. The ghost of his mother has been in a terrible state about it all morning. “It’s for people who are shit at baking.”

“Well, that’s sort of harsh.” Just the steam rising from his mug seems to have rendered Bill a bit more of an adult human. He’s already standing a little straighter. “They’re just amateurs. It’s fun. It wouldn’t hurt for you to learn to laugh at your mistakes, Eddie.”

“You’re not my therapist,” Eddie snaps back, faster and harsher than he probably should. Bill, to his credit, just snorts and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Man, I’d be saving a lot of money if I were a therapist. Maybe I could fix my own bullshit  _ and _ yours.” Bill is laughing, which cuts a lot of sting from his words. “Look, you don’t have to do anything. I just thought it might be fun.”

“Well, I’m not doing it.” Eddie downs the rest of his coffee. No sugar, just the littlest splash of creamer. It’s disgusting.

Bill shrugs and grabs a yoghurt from the fridge. “Okay. That’s fine.”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew,” Eddie says, getting up to waste the rest of his Sunday.

“Sounds good.” Bill sounds slightly bemused, which for some reason, makes Eddie feel extremely angry.

***

He films an audition the following weekend, early in the morning before Bill wakes up. There’s a variety of motivations: a desire to tell the host to shut up face-to-face, his own pent up stir-craziness making him impulsive, anger with Bill for suggesting it in the first place. But mostly he’s just bored, so he bakes a confetti cake that comes out looking sort of green and emails the footage to the address he found online.

And then he forgets about it. Edward Kaspbrak is a full grown man. He has a full-time job and he lives with a hopelessly undisciplined writer. Also, Audra comes to visit the following week, so he’s distracted from his own bad life choices for a while by the sounds of Bill getting laid downstairs.

He even forgets to tell Dr. Martin about it. Though, to be fair, Eddie is kind of beefing with him at the moment, so who even cares? Serves that asshole right for talking about his mother like that.

He forgets and then his phone vibrates while he’s at the office and he flips it over to see the screen. Part of his brain is still under the assumption that Myra is going to be texting him to ask him to pick up something on his way home from work. The office tends to trick him that way. Once he’s back with the gray carpet and the flickering fluorescent light over his cubicle, it’s like he’s drawn back in time. Every day the same as the last and it’s all fine and his supposed pornography addiction hasn’t destroyed his marriage yet.

But it’s an email from someone named Stanley Uris from Netflix and Eddie chokes on his coffee.

“You okay, Kaspbrak?” one of his co-workers asks.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll just be right back,” he says, frantically putting his desk phone on Do Not Disturb and rushing to the bathroom. He probably looks like he’s about to shit his pants, but he can live with that. His co-workers are long since used to his bullshit.

He slams the door behind him and locks it.

_ Good morning, Mr. Kaspbrak! _ the email begins and Eddie’s surprised to feel butterflies in his stomach. He expected dread, but he just feels… kind of excited, more than anything. He reads on.

_ We were surprised to get your video. Normally we request contestants just send a picture of themselves and one of their creations, but one of my fellow producers really enjoyed the video you sent. Thus, I’d like to invite you to appear in an episode shooting on June 3rd. _

_ Please respond as soon as possible so I can have someone send you the appropriate paperwork. _

_ Sincerely,  
_ _ Stan Uris _

It’s only Eddie’s profound germophobia that stops him from sliding to the floor. His hands and his legs shake and his throat feels oddly thick. He tries to slow his breathing, very much aware that he left his inhaler at his desk in his rush to reach the restroom.

He could refuse. Maybe tell “Stan Uris” that he’s actually not interested in appearing on the show, that it was just a lost bet or something else equally unlikely.

Dr. Martin told him to make sure that baking stayed as something fun. His hobby needed to be something that allowed him to burn off excess energy, but also that had nothing to do with work and be non-competitive. Eddie, historically, has never done well with competition.

But, on the other hand, he is currently fighting with his therapist, so maybe it’s just that spite that makes him type:

_ Mr. Uris -- _

_ Thank you for your reply. I’m sorry for not following proper procedure and I do appreciate your letting me know how these things are done. _

_ I would be delighted to come to film on June 3rd. Is there a specific time I should arrive? _

_ Thank you so much for your time. I’m excited for the opportunity. _

_ Yours,  
_ _ Edward Kaspbrak _

In under a minute, he gets a response.

_ Great. I’ll have the AD send you some documents. _

_ Sent from my iPhone. _

***

The structure of the show goes like this:

The comedian host (some asshole named Richie Tozier who honestly annoys the shit out of Eddie) gives a little introduction explaining the concept and, usually, the theme of that episode’s theme. After that the contestants are introduced with that one shot everyone rips off from  _ The Right Stuff _ . Then the host introduces them to his co-host, the award-winning chef Mike Hanlon, who is soft spoken (and has, according to Wikipedia, written a book that Eddie doubts he’ll ever read), and whoever the guest judge is.

Then there’s the first round: Baker’s Choice. The contestants get to pick between three variations on a smaller dessert, usually cookies or cupcakes. There’s a prize for this round, usually something dumb like a decorating kit, which, if you’re a contestant on  _ this _ show, it seems like a stretch that you’d actually know how to use anything they give you.

(There was also that one episode where that lady won a year’s supply of butter. Eddie can’t stop thinking about that one. Did they give her all the butter at once? Wouldn’t a lot of it go bad before it could be used? Where was she supposed to store it all?)

Then there was the second round: Nail It or Fail It, which Eddie thought was a dumb name, but what did he know? He wasn’t a TV producer. Maybe people liked that kind of stuff. In that round, contestants all had to make the same thing, usually some ridiculously complicated cake. It’s always covered in fondant, which Eddie’s never worked with, but he’s pretty confident he could figure it out.

Whoever wins that round gets ten thousand dollars. Eddie doesn’t really need that kind of money, but he’s not gonna turn it down by any means.

And that’s it.

Eddie can bake a couple cupcakes and a cake.

It’ll be fine.

Fuckin’ Bill Denbrough.

***

There’s prep work to be done first though.

Eddie is good at his job. Actually, scratch that. He’s  _ great _ at his job. It’s mind-numbing and occasionally feels so pointless that he wants to throw himself out of an office window, but a lot of it feels like puzzles. He’s given a case and he has to put together all the pieces with the rules he already knows and, hopefully, by the time he’s done, he’ll never have to talk to the customer again. Maybe his customer service isn’t great, but he gets things done and his reviews are generally about two points higher than the rest of his co-workers.

Unfortunately, he’s not great about, to quote HR, “consistency and dependability”, which is bullshit. Eddie takes a lot of days off, but that’s just because he gets sick a lot, which is none of his supervisors’ fucking business, but they all know it anyway. Half the time, he ends up working from home anyway, sniffling in bed with tissues crammed up his nostrils and Vick’s all over his chest and neck.

Basically, he’s making a calculated risk by asking his supervisor for a day off, less than two weeks in advance.

“Really, Kaspbrak?” Leslie says, her expression sour as he fidgets in the doorway to her office. “Do you plan to be at work every day until then?”

He scoffs. “Of course, I  _ plan _ to. If I get sick before then, obviously, that’s not  _ planned _ .”

She rolls her eyes and drops a file into her rolling cabinet. “Whatever. Just enter it in the web clock and I’ll approve it. Also don’t forget to enter the days in the calendar.”

He thanks her and beats a quick retreat before she can change her mind. Leslie doesn’t like him and, honestly, that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it used to. It’s five minutes before he would normally clock out, so, after submitting the request, he heads out to his car and goes to get a haircut.

Eddie would never argue that he’s attractive. His features are too sharp, his nose and his weak jaw too pointed. His eyes are a little too large and are brown like a muddy puddle, framed with unfading eye bags. Worry lines have formed in his forehead and between his forever unkempt eyebrows. As a kid, he hated his eyelashes most, which always looked a little too thick and girlish for his liking. But as he slowly grew into adulthood, his face and body have acquired a whole host of additional unattractive elements for him to frown at.

Whatever. He’s overdue for a trim, even though that won’t correct the mousy brown of his hair, or the shadow that hasn’t left his cheeks since he hit the latter half of puberty. He’s getting his hair cut now so he doesn’t appear overly groomed on the show.  _ Prissy _ , his father used to say before he vanished, never to be seen again.

“Nice haircut,” Bill says, when Eddie returns. The house smells like sesame oil, which he guesses means Bill’s already ordered take out, and Bill is reading in the living room, looking for all the world like the professor he isn’t. “You look like a bank clerk.”

“You look like a college student,” Eddie retorts, kicking the sole of Bill’s shoe before heading upstairs to change into something that isn’t business formal.

“Thank you!” Bill calls back cheerfully.

“Not a compliment!”

***

It turns out that Eddie actually doesn’t know jack or shit about how TV shows are made.

He drives up to the studio before the sun has fully risen and rereads the email from the assistant director a couple more times before he’s able to spot where he’s supposed to park, but the guard isn’t there yet, so he has to loiter in a red curb area for a bit with his hazards on until he spots some people driving into the lot. At least the guard takes pity on him when he shows the email from the AD and helps him with some directions, so Eddie gets less lost than he originally would have on his way to the desk.

But there’s no one behind the desk. There’s just a tablet and a jar of candy. He looks around for a moment. If he didn’t know better, this could’ve just been another branch for his company,the decor is so drab. Boring office style is the same for all industries, he supposes. He taps the tablet.

_ Please Enter Your Full Name: _ it says, so he types it in.

_ Please Enter The Name Of The Person You Are Visiting:  _ and he enters the assistant director’s name before sitting down on a disturbingly hard concrete bench.

Maybe he’s in the wrong building, he thinks. Or maybe this was all Bill’s idea of a prank. Not that he’s ever been the pranking kind before, but having more money than sense might do that to a person.

He fidgets with his phone, checking for texts continuously even though there’s no one likely to text him. Maybe one of his coworkers, asking about details for a client. Or Bill, asking if Eddie is trying to poison him with the leftover snickerdoodles in the kitchen. That would be a great confidence booster on today of all days.

He’s so engrossed in his own whirling thoughts that he doesn’t notice that someone else is here too until he hears the crinkling of cellophane. He looks up.

It turns out Richie Tozier is tall, way taller than he looks on Eddie’s iPad screen. Taller and ganglier than any camera would lead one to believe, even as his t-shirt shows a bit of a paunch at his waist. It’s probably hard to avoid gaining a little weight when sifting through the candy bowl to pocket every green Jolly Rancher. His comically thick glasses are sliding down toward the tip of his nose as he continues his search.

Eddie drops his phone and Richie Tozier turns around sharply, as though he’s been caught.

“Oh my God!” he says, a shockingly wide smile forming on his face. “You’re the video guy!”

Eddie jumps to his feet, even as he feels his neck growing uncomfortably hot under the collar of his polo shirt. “What?”

“The guy who kept cussing in his audition video!” The actual Richie Tozier, live and in person, beams at him and puts out his hand. “It was Eddie, right? ‘Cause I kept thinking about spaghetti.”

“Wait -- why were you thinking about spaghetti?” he says, even as common courtesy forces him to accept the handshake. Richie’s hands are surprisingly soft and, this close, Eddie has to crane his neck back a little to look him in the eye.

Richie looks surprised by the question. “Oh, ‘cause it rhymes,” he says, like Eddie doesn’t know this. Richie continues before he can respond. “You’re waiting for someone to lead you down to the studio, right? I’ll take you.”

He waves a hand for Eddie to follow him and he does, stumbling for a moment to grab his phone from the floor. The screen has cracked at the corner, which is great and awesome and just fucking  _ terrific _ .

Richie walks with long, loping steps, jogging down stairs and leading the way down fluorescent-lit hallways with gray double doors at irregular distances. He pushes through a set of them.

“There you go,” he says, smiling cheerfully. “That’s Em. She’ll take care of you from here. Bye!”

Eddie isn’t great with reading people, but there’s something weirdly sarcastic about Richie Tozier’s whole mode of being. It’s part of what he found annoying about him while watching the show. A kind of snark that permeated through his too-wide smile, even when he complimented someone’s food.

And then, as he watches Richie wander off, presumably to change out of his schluby clothes, he realizes that _Richie Tozier_ _watched his audition video_.

Eddie may be weak in a lot of ways, but a lifetime of unnecessary medication being thrust into his system means that his stomach might be the strongest part of him. That means that it’s saying a lot that he feels suddenly nauseous. His face is too hot and his hands shake, his thumb pressed into the newly formed crack on his phone screen.

“You’re Edward Kaspbrak?”

A dark skinned young woman wearing a black t-shirt and jeans has come up to him. She also has a tool belt on and a number of colors of electric tape attached with a carabiner. It’s… not a look Eddie would go for, but he supposes it’s probably functional, like her sneakers.

“Uh, yeah. Call me Eddie.”

She smiles. “It’s nice to meet you in person. Please follow me.”

He does. Being on a film set is much more surreal than he thought it would be. Theoretically, he knew how they looked, but he also theoretically knows what his gallbladder looks like. The experience of actually being on a soundstage, of the thin, plywood walls, forming ceilingless rooms, is much different. Blisteringly bright lights hang on a grid from the actual ceiling. Wires crisscross the floor like freshly hatched snakes. Everyone seems to be moving fast -- time is money and there’s no sense in wasting either, he supposes.

She leads him back to a kind of dressing room. He’s the first to arrive, apparently. Unless all the contestants have their own dressing rooms, which seems like a waste.

A middle-aged woman with shockingly orange hair is standing by the mirror, organizing various powders and concealers on the vanity. Em smiles at him with such businesslike friendliness that Eddie feels like he’s back at the office.

“Midge here is our make-up artist and hairstylist. She’ll be helping you get camera ready,” Em explains. She checks her watch and gives him an apologetic look. “I have to go collect the other contestants, but don’t be afraid to ask for me if you have any questions.”

She leaves and Eddie is left alone with Midge, who is looking at him like his mother used to look at produce at the grocery store.

Eddie has only worn make-up once in his life before. When he was eight, he got roped into the church’s Nativity play. He played the angel and one of the old church ladies put a metric buttload of blush on his cheeks and a little pink lipstick on his lips. It had about as great an impact on his popularity at school as one would expect.

“Well, sit down,” Midge says, gesturing to the make-up chair.

“I… Uh, do I need make-up?” he asks. He’s starting to sweat a lot. Maybe it’s the lights.

Midge fixes him with a look. “Yes. The camera makes everyone look like a pizza-faced teenager. Get in the chair.”

During Midge’s not-so-gentle ministrations, the other two contestants are brought in. Both of them are women, one younger than Eddie and the other old enough to be his mom. Both of them also try to engage him in conversation, but he’s become so nervous at this point that his breathing has grown shallow. It tugs against his throat, whistling into his lungs. He coughs.

“Uh, I’m gonna go to the restroom.”

Midge, her job complete, is now leaning against the vanity, her eyes on her phone. “Should be across that way.” She gestures unhelpfully.

Eddie leaves the dressing room, suddenly aware that its walls are thin enough that it might as well be a cardboard box.

He finds the bathroom somehow and shuts himself in one of the stalls before pulling his inhaler out of his pocket.

Step one: shake. Step two: exhale. Step three: puff. Step four: wait for the longest ten seconds of your life. Step five: breathe, you asshole.  _ Breathe _ .

He takes a shaky breath, now able to take the weird, talcum-powdery taste of his medication. Fuck his pride and fuck Bill and fuck this whole idea. It was a bad idea. All he ever has are bad ideas. What was he supposed to expect from himself?

He shuts his eyes and presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, the way he used to when he was a kid. Sparks fly -- neon colored fireworks -- and he can literally  _ feel _ his heart rate lower.

Dr. Martin gave him a method a while ago: to make a wheel and organize all possible outcomes, from worst to best. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a pen and paper and just as he’s about to write out a list on his phone, the door to the bathroom opens.

“Hey Eddie?” It’s Em, polite as ever.

Eddie swallows hard. “Yeah?”

“We’re starting in five minutes. Are you okay?”

He nods before he remembers she can’t see him and shoves his phone in his back pocket. “Uh yeah. Just give me a second.”

“Alright. See you in a moment.” She leaves. Eddie takes one last deep breath before he exits the stall and, when he looks in the mirror, he’s happy to see he’s fucked up most of Midge’s good work.

He forces himself to smile and heads back out.

Em leads them to where they’ll be making their entrance, handing them each a different color apron. The older woman offers him the blue one cheerfully.

“For the young man,” she says with a smile, clearly thinking she’s done him some great service. He smiles back, more than a little uncomfortable.

“Thanks.”

Em has already shown them where they’ll be walking to. Eddie’s face still feels flushed and it’s been hard to hold onto his thoughts, but he’ll be damned if he fucks up on the easy shit.

He can walk from point A to point B.

He walks out in between the two women. He realizes that he’s been so in his own head, that he hasn’t bothered to learn either of their names, but that’s par for the course, considering who he’s been lately. He never believed people when they talked about their worlds being turned upside down by divorce, not when neither party was that invested to begin with. He and Myra mostly married because… God, he doesn’t even remember why.

And yet, since she kicked him out, he’s felt like he’s barely treading water. Maybe that’s why he can’t figure out why the fuck he’s here.

Honestly, he hasn’t understood a single decision he’s made since he called Bill in a panic, begging for a place to stay.

And then he trips.

He doesn’t fall. He kind of stumbles and manages to get himself back upright without his hands touching the floor, but when he looks up, the judges are in hysterics. The boom mic guy is shaking with silent laughter. Eddie stops walking and glares around.

Maybe it’s a dumb hill to die on, but he doesn’t want to be laughed at on a TV show.  _ For some reason _ .

“I told you, Stan!” Richie calls. He’s wearing a loudly patterned shirt and a pair of ill-fitting chinos. He’s swapped his glasses with an avant-garde pair with bright red frames. “You owe me twenty bucks!”

A guy with thick brown hair sitting off to the side rolls his eyes. In his peripheral vision, Eddie sees one of the cameras turn to film him.

“Okay, Richie. He’s great. I’ll pay you once you get a clean take of the introduction.”

Richie looks faux-aghast. Eddie feels like he’s just swallowed a bunch of pop rocks. They brought him here to laugh at him. His nostrils flare.

There’s that unhealthy competitive streak.

“Re-set!” a female voice calls and they start again.

***

Eddie is bisexual.

It’s not especially relevant. He’s just been trying to get used to it -- to make a habit of acknowledging it. It’s a bit like developing a callus. The first couple times he spotted it were painful and left him feeling raw and in danger of infection. The confusion that comes from pain -- from knowing that you are different, but having no language for it.

He only learned the word in college and there was a moment, a small sliver of light and the feeling of:  _ oh, so that’s it _ .

Then he met Myra and it stopped being relevant at all and then they got divorced and suddenly it was again. Especially as she insisted that he was gay, which he wasn’t, though he could understand why she made that assumption. There was  _ a lot _ of gay porn on his computer.

Does watching a disturbing amount of pornography count as cheating? He didn’t care to challenge that point much during their divorce proceedings, but he wonders now. Myra had never meant to be hurtful, but she sort of slotted into the same spot his mother had. But his mother  _ had _ meant to be hurtful and she  _ had _ hurt him.

In any case, he’s not gay and he spent way too much time staring at Bill in middle school to be really straight. Well, there’s other stuff too, but. Yeah.

He once asked his therapist if he thought Eddie had an addiction to pornography, but Dr. Martin just gave some dopey, “What do  _ you _ think?” answer and Eddie just ended up getting annoyed. He thinks he does though, because when Bill lent him the iPad, Eddie swore he wasn’t going to watch any porn on it. He was going to have to return it at some point, after all.

But a week later, he was trolling through PornHub with a hand down his pants. Maybe he could wipe all the data from it before giving it back to Bill.

It’s not like he finds everyone attractive. It’s just that sex and gender have never been part of what would exclude someone from his attention. Just because he was incapable of having a functional relationship with anyone didn’t mean they weren’t attractive to him.

On television, Richie Tozier isn’t attractive. His head is too square, Eddie thinks, and his nose is too small and his forehead is too big. He’s too scruffy and too flippant about his own incompetence.

But, in person, he’s very tall. He sort of stoops when he stands, like he’s trying to cover it, but there’s no disguising it off camera. His chest and shoulders are broad, making his loud button-up hang from his shoulders, which in turn makes him look thinner than he actually is.

Mike Hanlon is also handsome, but in a way that’s so out of Eddie’s league that his brain can’t even compute him. Richie falls right in the sweet spot: attractive, but not unattainable.

And that’s not great for Eddie’s focus.

***

Bev Marsh is the guest judge on the episode and Eddie prays that it’s just the world’s biggest coincidence and that she’s not the Bev that Bill was talking about. Thankfully, Eddie turned off his phone at the request of Em before they started filming, so he doesn’t have to find out right now. She’s pretty with short, ginger hair and a smile that instantly puts Eddie at ease.

She’s also, apparently, some kind of fashion designer, because, as Richie explains, the theme of the day is high fashion.

“That theme certainly explains this look,” Mike quips, shooting a laughing smile in Richie’s direction. Bev laughs.

“You wound me, Mike!” Richie cries dramatically. “Don’t worry, we’ll take you shopping right after this.”

Their chemistry is easy enough and Eddie almost forgets that there’s a teleprompter diagonally behind him, feeding them their lines. But, even with the small amount that they’ve filmed, it seems like Richie commonly goes off script.

“Now, Bev, you and I have known each other a long time,” he says, bending down a little to be more at her height. “So -- ”

“I don’t want people to know we’re associated,” she laughs, bumping him with her shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Eddie sees Stan shake his head. Presumably, this was also not planned.

“I just was going to say, ‘so I trust you to introduce this challenge’.  _ Wow _ . It’s just roast Richie day, huh?”

“Well, you do dress like that,” Mike says, rolling his eyes, but he’s also laughing.

“This is unacceptable.” Richie shakes his head. “Bev, hit it!”

“Richie, this isn’t when you introduce the Baker’s Challenge. First you have to talk to the fucking contestants!” Stan calls from his chair, not looking up from his tablet.

“God  _ damn _ it!” Richie throws his head back. “Alright, let’s do this.”

“Cut! Re-set!” a female voice calls and they run it all again. Eddie’s feet are starting to hurt.

There’s a lot of aspects to making a TV show that Eddie had never considered, like that there would be multiple takes. Like that he might be tangentially connected to all three judges, because of Bill. Like that Midge would be coming over occasionally to put more powder on his face because the director has an issue with his “shine”.

He wishes they would just say that he’s a sweaty mess. The euphemisms are going to kill him.

Worst of all, he hadn’t thought about having to actually, you know,  _ talk _ to the judges. He can’t remember what dumb shit he said in his video, but apparently it’s a lot worse than he thought, because after talking to Sammy and Gloria, Richie turns his magnified eyes to Eddie.

“So, we heard you’re recently back on the market, Eddie,” he says and his voice somehow feels much more nasal than it did before. “Are you on here to show the ladies your sweet skills in the kitchen?”

“How do you know that?” Eddie snaps, without thinking.

Richie puts his hands up, but he looks absolutely  _ delighted _ . “You made an audition video, dude. We don’t stalk our contestants.”

“Oh.” God, he’s an idiot. He can feel himself blushing furiously. The full force of Richie’s attention is a lot to take. “Yeah. Uh, ladies. Gentlemen. Here’s the goods.” He does a half-hearted spin, finishing with a little “ta-da” gesture.

He sees Stan off to the side put his head in his hands, but before he can think about it too much Richie cackles delightedly, his head thrown back and his Adam’s apple prominent. “You clearly didn’t know this was a fashion episode, eh, Eds?”

“Well, you did, so what does that say?”

The words are out before he can stop them and Bev bursts into a fit of giggles. Richie beams even wider, his eyes flashing with mischief, but Mike speaks before he can unleash a retort.

“Stop giving Rich attention. He’ll just get a bigger head.”

“Aw, come on, Mike! You love me!”

A couple takes down and, finally, they learn what they’ll be making: ice-cream cakes shaped and decorated like little purses.

“You’ll be making the ice cream and the cakes themselves as well as creating all the details that make these cakes special,” Mike explains.

“When I say ‘vogue!’, you’ll each step forward to pick your  _ fabulous _ purse.” Richie winks at the camera. “Ready? Set?  _ Vogue _ !”

He strikes a pose, but Eddie is already surging forward. He gets there first and grabs what seems to be the simplest purse cake: a camel-colored number with a gold chain handle.

Whatever stupid puns Richie says next, Eddie doesn’t really hear. He’s too busy examining the cake he has to make, already putting together a game plan. Making the ice cream is what makes him most nervous, but he knows he has to get his cakes in the oven first thing, because they have to actually, you know, cook all the way. Then he’ll worry about the ice cream.

It’s probably bad for his mental health in the long term, but racing to his station to show these assholes feels so fucking good.

Step one: mix the batter. Step two: bake the cakes.

Eddie’s never used a stand mixer, but Bill’s mom used to have a hand mixer and she would let him lick the beaters if he promised not to tell his mom. It only takes him a couple minutes to figure out, which makes him wonder about some of the contestants he’s seen on the show. He throws the ingredients in the mixer at top speed. His cake is supposed to be a spice cake, not that he knows what the fuck that is, so he throws some cinnamon and nutmeg in and calls it good.

He’s watched the show enough that he knows what mistakes people make, so his pans are extremely greased and not overfilled when they go in the oven. 

Steps one and two: complete.

“Look at Eddie Spaghetti go!”

Eddie’s head snaps up, his eyes on the judge’s table. Richie is watching him, chin in his hands, a smile on his face.

“With all due respect, don’t call me that!” he calls back and Richie laughs.

“I love this guy,” he says, his shoulders shaking.

Eddie shakes his head. “Focus, focus.”

Making the ice cream is nerve wracking. He tries in vain to keep his hands steady as he adds the liquid and leaps back in preparation for any to spill on him. Even with the safety equipment, he’s not great with dangerous chemicals. But it turns out okay. He tries some of it and it tastes like cinnamon-vanilla ice cream. Good.

He checks on his cakes. They’re not quite done, so he starts trying to roll out the fondant, but it’s different than he thought it would be. Harder, though it starts to soften after he kneads it a little. Unfortunately, it’s also a little sticky and that makes him take longer to roll it out. There’s also a buckle on the bag he hadn’t thought about when he grabbed it and the criss-crossed quilting carved into the surface.

Hyperfocus, that’s what he’s heard it called, where your mind seems to get completely consumed by a single task so much that time seems to stop existing.

But then: “Fifteen minutes, guys! That’s a one and a five!”

He looks up at the sound of Richie’s voice and swears before racing to the oven. He burns his hands a little pulling out his cakes, but they come out of the pans easily. The whole thing slaps together easily and he throws it in the freezer and tries his best to put together his decorations.

Just as he realizes that there’s no way to make the gold fondant chain in time, he notices Gloria out of the corner of his eye as she takes a taste of her buttercream. He’s an idiot. He’s the biggest fucking moron in the entire universe. He remembered everything else. How the fuck is his fondant supposed to stick without any fucking frosting?

He taps the tablet, frantically going back to the recipe. There it is: buttercream. He’s never made it before, but it can’t be that fucking difficult.

“Ten minutes!”

Everything gets thrown together and once the frosting is whipped and sweet, he grabs his cake. The buttercream, because it’s  _ room temperature, Bill, you asshole _ , spreads easily.

Step whatever he’s on: Fondant.

Carefully, he lifts his rolled out fondant and  _ of course _ it rips.

He freezes, mentally calculating. Somehow, he can hear the judges talking over the thudding of his pulse.

“Five minutes!” Bev shouts, drumming her hands against the table.

Eddie closes his eyes for a moment and drapes the fondant over his ice cream cake. A twisted piece of fondant is spray-painted gold for the chain. The judges are counting down and he places his ice cream cake on the stand.

It’s there. It exists. It’s not perfect, but it exists.

See? He can do something competitively and not lose his mind. Fuck you, Dr. Martin. 

Richie lopes over, hands in his pockets. His posture kind of reminds Eddie of Hobbes from the  _ Calvin and Hobbes _ comic strip.

“Eds! Eddie Spaghetti!” he says, grinning mischievously. His stupid Skeletor smile makes glasses slip down his nose. “Whaddya make for us?”

“I -- It’s a purse,” Eddie says, like an intelligent person.

“Keep rolling. Re-set,” Stan calls and then fixes Eddie with a stern look. “You’re supposed to turn around the table and say ‘Nailed it’. I thought you’d watched this show.”

“I have. I just was answering -- ”

“No, I get that,” Stan says and then points a finger at Richie. “Don’t prompt people incorrectly.”

Richie rolls his eyes and gives Eddie the kind of look that makes him feel like he’s back in elementary school, making fun of Mr. Muller behind his back. He smiles.

“Alright. Alright.” Richie shakes himself out like a wet dog and jumps up and down a couple times. “Okay, I’m good.” He gives Em a thumbs up and then turns to Eddie. “Alright, Eddie Spaghetti. Let’s all remember the cake you were trying to make… And let’s see what you made!”

Eddie presses the button to drop the screen covering his cake. “Nailed it?”

Richie raises his eyebrows, an impressed frown on his lips. He turns to Mike.

“I mean, it looks really good,” Mike says and Eddie finds himself smiling hugely. He probably looks manic and shit, but he doesn’t really mind.

“Yeah, I like this little stylized thing for the chain.” Bev points a well-manicured finger along the twisted fondant. “It’s really cute!”

“You even got the little diamonds on here. Damn!” Richie bends forward, examining the cake closer. Eddie feels like he’s burning from the inside out, but it’s with pride. He wipes his brow, still grinning. “Let’s see if it tastes as good.”

Em walks over, handing them each a fork and backs off. Mike is the first one to dig in. His nails are trimmed and Eddie can see a small cut on the back of his fingers, but the whole experience is so foreign. He treats Eddie’s sloppy-looking ice cream cake as though it’s something to be treasured, as something valuable.

Eddie’s never really interacted with a professional chef before and, for a second, it kind of feels like being back in church, like getting soot smudged on his forehead for Ash Wednesday.

“That’s not bad,” he says carefully. His gaze seems a little distant, like he’s focusing somewhere right behind Eddie. “It’s a little dry, but I think you left your cakes in a little longer than you should’ve, right?”

“Yeah, I just got really caught up doing the fondant.”

Richie is still chewing as he licks some of the buttercream off the side of his finger. “I like the spices in the cake. And I like that we didn’t have melted ice cream. I was worried about that.”

“It’s good!” Bev looks honestly surprised and she smiles at him. She has a somewhat boney face, but her expression is soft and genuine. He feels a knot of anxiety loosen a little. “And you got a lot of the details. I think you honestly did kind of nail it. That’s a lot of work for forty-five minutes. Really good job.”

“It’s very good,” Mike agrees. He seems more focused in again and he fixes Eddie with a strict, but not unkind look. “The cake just has to come out a little earlier next time and maybe more varied flavors in the ice cream, I think, would help. Right now it’s a lot of just cinnamon. Also your buttercream is a little heavy, but I think you made it at the last minute?”

“Yeah, uh. I kinda forgot it before,” Eddie says, sheepishly. Mike waves his concern aside.

“It’s just something to keep in mind for later. The longer you let it whip, the more air it gets. Does that make sense?”

Eddie nods and Richie claps his hands together.

“We’ve gotta go eat more cake,” Richie says with a kind of hyperactivity that Eddie has never really seen in a grown adult. “Buh-bye, Eds!”

“Don’t call me that!” he says, with a fake smile. Richie laughs again delightedly.

He spaces out a little as they’re critiquing Sammy and Gloria. He looks down at his cake, pride still bubbling hot inside his gut. Quickly, he glances around to make sure he’s not being filmed and then he grabs a bit of his cake with his fingers.

It’s not great. It’s just okay. And Mike is right about the spices, but it tastes  _ like _ a spice cake and the ice cream tastes  _ like _ ice cream and the frosting isn’t terrible. He’s not over the moon about it, but he didn’t embarrass himself. His hands shake and he feels like he just released the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Richie has a kind of sour expression on his face as he steps back a little. “Gloria, you look like my mom and I love that, but you know this cake is… wild, right?”

Gloria, to her credit, chuckles cheerfully. “As long as you’re not poisoned, I think I’ve done okay.”

Eddie resists the urge to roll his eyes. Some people don’t understand competition.

“I appreciate not being poisoned, Gloria,” Richie says and gives her a wink. “Okay, everyone scooch down towards Gloria.”

Sammy gives Eddie a nervous grimace as they move. She probably mentioned her age, but he doesn’t remember it. Her mannerisms are almost teenage and he kind of feels bad for her, because he saw her running back for those Rice Krispie treats earlier. He gives her a little thumbs up and she smiles.

“Okay!” Richie shouts and Gloria actually jumps. Has she even watched the show? Fuckin’ amateur hour in here. “Mr. Hanlon, could you please do us the pleasure announcing the winner of this Baker’s Haute Couture?”

“Certainly.” Mike turns to face them, his hands clasped behind his back. “The winner of the Baker’s Choice is…” Eddie sees Em count to three. “Eddie!”

“What -- Really?” he says.

“Ms. Marsh, would you tell this wannabe fashionista what he’s won?”

“Yes!” She’s reading from the teleprompter, Eddie realizes. “You will be the envy of every belle of the ball with this stand up mixer!”

“Oh, cool!” Part of him wants to complain about them constantly saying he’s a girl, but he’s not sure if he’d get in trouble. The mixer is nice, though.

At least it’s not the year’s worth of butter.

“And, as you’re the one to watch, you get this gold baker’s cap!” Richie says as Em hands him the ghastly thing. Eddie grimaces.

“Do I have to wear it?” he asks and Richie laughs again. He has nice teeth, Eddie thinks.

“Yes, Eds, you do,” he says, reaching around to affix the Velcro at the back so it stays up on Eddie’s head. “Damn, you got a big head.”   


“Okay, okay.” Eddie stumbles back from Richie. He smells nice too, like laundry detergent and a bit of lavender. It makes him sweat -- either from heat or nerves -- being near someone who smells like that. Richie raises an eyebrow, but steps back. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it.”

“Okay, break for fifteen,” Em calls, tapping her watch. “We need to get these stations cleaned up.” She turns to Eddie. “Do you want me to hold onto the hat?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says and pulls it off. She takes it with a smile.

“You’re welcome to go sit in the make-up room.” There’s a command in her statement and Eddie nods before heading off.

His whole body still feels flushed and sweaty from the proximity. God, he’s pathetic. And lonely. He wishes he had a wife that only came into town once every couple months. He heard an interview once with Audra when he was in a doctor’s waiting room where she explained that she and Bill were in an open relationship. The idea sounds kind of frightening to him, but he’s also a fucking hypochondriac and it seems like Bill’s happy, so who is he to judge?

A hypochondriac with a standard cargo hold full of emotional baggage and who is, apparently, so desperate that just smelling one clean man makes him hot and bothered. What a fucking catch, Eddie. What’re you gonna do next, Eddie? Get a fucking hard-on the next time Bev smiles at him?

He flops down on the couch, but jumps back up when Gloria and Sammy enter.

“Congratulations!” Gloria says and she shakes his hand.

“Oh, thanks.” He still feels very off balance, but he tries to smile. “You guys did great too.”

“It’s harder than I thought it would be.” Sammy sits on the arm of the sofa and cracks her back. “It looks so much easier on TV.”

“It really does.” Gloria nods.

Eddie needs to be… not in this room, he realizes. He makes some lame excuse before leaving and heading back towards the bathroom, but Richie is standing just outside the door, talking to some disgustingly handsome guy and Eddie could  _ die _ .

But then the guy turns and Eddie recognizes the angular features and the Vulcan-esque eyebrows. It’s Ben Hanscom, Bill’s friend and, apparently, Bev Marsh’s boyfriend. So it is that Bev. That’s fuckin’ great.

“Eddie, right? It’s good to see you!” He gives Eddie a tight-yet-awkward hug. “I told Bill you’d be a good fit for this. Especially with Richie.” He squeezes Richie by the shoulder and Richie pretends to go limp like a rag doll. Ben laughs and then stuffs his hands back into his pockets.

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s been fun,” Eddie says. Maybe Ben is someone who relaxes more the longer he knows someone, but the only times Eddie’s interacted with him he’s been the most awkward person on the planet. Sure he’s hot, but how did he get a girl like Bev Marsh?

Richie points to him. “You did good in that first round. God, that fuckin’ audition tape was funny. Did I send you that shit, Ben?”

Eddie feels his insides twist with embarrassment. Leave it to these rich assholes to make him feel smaller than he already is. “I was just… being myself.”

He’s horrified to see something like pity cross Richie Tozier’s face. “I didn’t mean funny in a bad way -- ”

“No, it’s okay. I just gotta take a leak, fellas. Excuse me.” Eddie forces his way between them and ducks into the bathroom. He goes into the same stall he used before and tugs his earbuds and his phone from his pockets.

Fingers shaking, he pulls up the video he sent to the casting department.

He starts by breaking the eggs, talking to himself the way he usually does, but also with the awareness that someone’s watching him.

He looks sweaty. And small.

And he sounds completely fucking insane. As he scrubs through the video, he sounds more and more like a street corner preacher, screaming about the end times. He shakes out his arm at one point, when the batter has gotten thicker and he’s been stirring it for a minute.

“If you think this is a workout, Kaspbrak, you should see how your wife feels. No, that’s stupid. You’re fucking divorced, you asshole. God damn it. Stop trying to be fuckin’ funny.” On his phone screen, he slams the bowl on the counter and grabs the cake pan. “And now I’m gonna grease this asshole like I’m gonna fuck it, because these fuckin’ dumbass contestants never remember to fucking grease them. How do you forget that? I’ve not even been baking a full year and I fucking know that. You wanna win some fuckin’ money? You gotta grease the fuckin’ pan.”

If Eddie thought he was blushing earlier, he was wrong. His whole body feels like it’s on fire. Trembling, he crouches down, tucking his head between his knees.

Is that what he looks like? Is that what he looks like all the time?

“Hey, Spaghetti!”

He snaps up, peering through the gap in the stall to see Richie leaning into the bathroom.

“What?” he asks and his voice sounds raspy and strange. He can see Richie’s expression shift, but Eddie isn’t sure what it means.

“We’re, uh -- We’re starting again,” Richie says. “You ready to get back out there?”

Anger pierces through the acidic humiliation that’s pooling in his stomach right now.  _ You ready to get back out there, Eddie? You ready to get back out there and humiliate yourself? _

“Yeah. I’m coming.”

***

It’s a ridiculously complicated cake. Of course it is. It’s a cake shaped like a dress -- the skirt is made of red velvet cake and the top is made of Rice Krispie treats and of course it’s got fondant on top.

Of course his cake sticks to the pan and of course it ends up getting kind of burned. And of course he accidentally drops his first batch of buttercream on the floor because his hands are shaking so badly. Of course he manages to get the fondant on just to have the top of the dress start falling from the metal armature they were provided.

Of course. Of course. Of course.

He keeps trying -- it’s not that he’s not trying. It’s that his brain has entered a weird, dark hole and like he’s losing his peripheral vision and thoughts slip away before he can fully grasp their meaning.

“ _ If you think this cake is too big, wait until you see my mother! _ ” he said on the video he sent in.  _ He _ said that.  _ Him _ . Eddie Kaspbrak. Looking for all the world like the same pathetic, short, skinny piece of shit that he’s always been, just now covered with sweat. He said it as though being overweight was one of his mother’s sins, but that was never the problem with Sonia Kaspbrak. Not at all.

But he gets the cake out, aware that he’s talking to himself the whole time. The skirt portion isn’t tall enough, but it’s  _ there _ and it  _ exists _ . For a moment, a sliver of light:  _ Maybe it’s not the end of the world _ .

And then the top of his dress starts to slip from the armature and he has to hold it in place, through the last moments of the countdown.

“Time’s up!” Richie calls and Eddie is shaking all over. He can feel himself starting to cry. While wearing a fucking gold hat. While being filmed.

He bites his lip as hard as he can and shuts his eyes. If he could get a breath -- but his lungs don’t seem to be inflating anymore. The weight of his own failure as a human being finally comes to crush him.

“Hey, you gotta let go of that cake sometime.” It’s Mike, his voice gentle and soothing, and he’s being so kind and, somehow, that just makes it all the worse.

Eddie lets go and the bustier of his dress come crashing down.

And Richie Tozier  _ fucking laughs _ .

And that’s the last straw.

“Oh, you know what, asshole?” Eddie can barely tell the words are coming from himself except for the ache in his chest and the scraping at his throat. He snatches the stupid hat off and throws it to the floor. “Fuck you and fuck this!”

And he leaves.

***

He rear-ends someone on the way home and that’s when he calls Bill.

He’s still wearing the apron, is still covered in flour and there’s a clump of buttercream that’s somehow gotten into his hair. The other driver is a young mother and he goes through the motions of exchanging insurance information. He tells her to take pictures and she has to try a couple times to unlock her phone, because her hands are shaking so badly. Meanwhile, her toddler is sitting in the backseat, mashing sticky fingers on a tablet with a sturdy protective case. Neither of their cars are in bad shape, but after she drives away, Eddie just sits there on the shoulder, feeling empty, wrung out.

His thumbnail doesn’t quite fit into the crack on his phone screen, but it feels good, somehow, to pick at the glass as he waits for Bill. 

When Bill gets there, it looks like he’s been walking for a bit. Eddie wonders where Bill had the Uber drop him off, how long he’s been walking along the freeway. His shoes are covered with dust and his sweater is slung over his shoulder.

Trembling all over, Eddie opens the door and steps out. His chest aches and aches, but he’s still breathing and his heart is beating so fast that he doesn’t want to use his inhaler anyway.

“Are you okay?” Bill asks when he reaches Eddie, who can’t seem to stand right. He sags against the side of his shitty little Prius. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t… I just wanna go home.” His words come out weirdly slurred and the humiliation from Bill’s concern eats at his insides. He fixes his gaze instead at the line of cars, all stuck in the usual stop-and-go traffic of Los Angeles.

“You’re calling Dr. Martin while I drive, okay?” Bill is firm and strict and Eddie nods. He starts to lead Eddie over to the backseat and opens the door for him. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I need you to tell him.”

“But you’ll hear.” Eddie’s not sure what invisible hand has closed around his throat.

“I’ll wear headphones. Just call.”

The part of Eddie that’s still a functional human wants to insist that it’s dangerous to drive in headphones, but it’s drowned out by the part of him that wants to crawl into a ditch and die, so he does what Bill says.

“Dr. Conrad Martin’s office. How can I help you?” the chipper voice of the receptionist comes through his phone speaker and Eddie actually flinches from the tinniness.

“Hi Jen. This is Eddie Kaspbrak. I need to speak with Dr. Martin. It’s an emergency. Not a big emergency. I don’t need the hospital. I just -- ”

Thankfully, Jen cuts him off before he can ramble too much further. She asks him the usual questions: does he want to hurt himself, does he want to hurt anyone else, is he in a safe place. Finally, she says, “Okay, I actually had the last appointment for today call to cancel. Can you get to the office by three?”

Eddie sits up to look at the digital clock on the dashboard. When did it get to 1:10? “Yeah.”

“Alright. I’ll add you to the calendar. See you later this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” he says and hangs up. He looks up at Bill in the driver’s seat, at his soft profile and his always gentle, world-weary eyes. He remembers when they were kids, the way he always looked a little duck-lipped and how little Georgie used to run after them, even when they closed the door to Bill’s room on his face.

Bill catches his eye in the rearview mirror and pulls out his headphones. “What’d Dr. Martin say?”

“He can see me at three,” Eddie starts and Bill passes back his phone.

“Just enter the address.”

Eddie does so and then hands the phone back. “Hey Bill?”

“Yeah?” Bill is driving with one hand, the other hand trying to fumble his phone onto Eddie’s stand.

A dozen questions rise in his throat, but what he finally asks is, “Are you happy? With Audra?”

Bill frowns and glances at Eddie in the rearview again. “I mean, yeah. We’re not in trouble, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It was.”

“Is this about Myra?” Bill asks, his brow furrowed. “Did she try and call you?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, it’s just… I don’t wanna talk about Myra. I wanna talk about you. About how… How, with Georgie and all -- ”

“Eddie -- ” Bill’s voice is rough, deeper than usual. He looks pained. “I don’t -- ”

“I just don’t get it,” Eddie says and he’s shocked to hear the anger in his own voice. “I don’t get how you get through something like that and I’m just -- ”

“We’re not talking about this,” Bill says, his voice stern. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel and he’s given up with the phone stand. His stammer is worse than normal, the words seem to catch in his throat, choking him.

“I just don’t understand how you can go through something like that and be happy?” Eddie shouts. He doesn’t mean too. It feels like he’s boiling over. Bill looks furious and, if he weren’t driving, Eddie is pretty sure he would have a black eye. “I didn’t have all that and I can’t seem to fucking get my shit straight and -- ”

“We’re not the same person, Eddie,” Bill snaps back. His eyes are glued to the road, but his cheeks have grown blotchy and red. “‘Cause I actually deal with my bullshit, okay? That’s how.”

“I deal with my shit!”   


Bill laughs and the cruelty of it makes Eddie’s hands ball into fists. “When the fuck have you done that? You never fucking deal with anything. You just get mad and then you bury it and you bury it until you finally explode and do something fucking stupid. You always have, because you’re too much of a coward to actually deal with your own problems so you have to fucking bring up G-Ge -- ” He chokes on the name.

Eddie’s mind has gone blank, still reeling from Bill’s verbal blows. He gapes for a couple moments, anger and guilt burning inside him.

“I -- ”

“Just  _ shut up _ , Eddie!” Bill roars. Eddie flinches back and does.

***

Bill drops him off at two-thirty and tells Eddie to call when he’s ready to get picked up. It’s the  first thing he’s said since he snapped. Eddie just nods and goes inside to wait.

The other appointment finishes a little early, a heavy set woman with the same style of sneakers favored by the formidable Sonia Kaspbrak. He feels suddenly sick as Dr. Martin stands in the doorway to his office and waves Eddie back.

He tells Dr. Martin everything, his palms pressed together, his whole body shaking from humiliation and anger and shame. He deserves it though. He did this to himself.

Dr. Martin just watches him, his expression unreadable, and Eddie wonders, not for the first time, if there’s a way to run away from his whole life. Just drop everything and start afresh somewhere new. If there’s a way to just melt out of himself and become someone else, someone better.

He stares at his own flour-dusted shoes instead.

“Okay,” Dr. Martin sighs, once he’s finally done. “I think you’ve finally rendered me speechless, Eddie.”

“It’s your fucking fault,” Eddie snaps and Dr. Martin raises his eyebrows. “I skipped last week’s appointment because of the shit you said and this is what fucking happens.”

Dr. Martin chuckles. “This is about what I said about your mother? But you filmed your audition before that, you said.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie struggles for a couple moments, working his hands. “I guess it’s just my fault then.”

“Eddie, can you look at me for a moment? If not, that’s okay.”

It takes him a moment, but he finally raises his eyes to meet Dr. Martin’s, his whole body shaking from the effort.

“It’s alright to have a hard time with things. You have had a difficult life, especially in childhood. You’ve made mistakes, but everyone has. What’s important is that you’re trying to improve and you’re learning how to process some of that early trauma. But Eddie,” and here he leans forward and a few tears, searing and hot, spill from Eddie’s eyes, “in order to improve, you have to be willing to be honest. With me, but more importantly, with yourself.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s okay. Let’s figure it out.”

***

Eddie apologizes to Bill on the drive home and Bill forgives him, but he knows there’s going to be some time before things are completely smoothed over.

The next day, he calls into work and Leslie scoffs, but doesn’t argue the point.

He stays in bed, watching TV on the iPad Bill lent him, but not really paying attention. He can hear Bill moving around downstairs and doesn’t move, even though he’s hungry enough to eat a horse, because he doesn’t want to make Bill feel like he has to be nice to him.

At some point, the doorbell rings and Eddie wonders absently what bullshit take out Bill has ordered today. But then he hears footsteps coming up to his room and he sits up, scrambling to get under the covers. He’s not naked, but he’d rather not chat with Bill in just his briefs.

A knock. “Yeah?” he calls and Bill comes in, looking a little more tired and rumpled than usual.

“Uh, there’s someone to see you downstairs,” he says. Eddie blinks.

“Me? Who?”

Bill scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor. “Guess you gotta go downstairs and find out.” He starts to leave and then turns back. “I’m sorry about yesterday. It’s hard, talking about him, even now. You know?” He looks at Eddie with those soft, down-turned eyes and Eddie nods.

“Yeah. I’m sorry too.”

Bill shakes his head. “You already apologized, Eddie. It’s my turn. I’m sorry. I was an ass.”

Eddie swallows. “Thanks.”

Bill smiles. “No problem. Better get downstairs. Don’t wanna leave your special guest waiting.”

It takes Eddie less than five minutes to get dressed and thunder down the stairs in just his socks and there, in the living room, seeming too tall for the space, is Richie Tozier.

Eddie stops sharply in the doorway, frozen. Richie is examining the books that fill the built in shelves. Bill always insists one day he’ll read all the books he owns, but Eddie is pretty sure that’s just bullshit, because he’s always bringing home more. He looks incredibly out of place in the pseudo-library, his bright colored shirt clashing with the surrounding polished wood and Persian rugs. His clunky, heavy framed glasses work, though, and for a second, in the soft light that comes through the sheer curtains, he looks almost young. Like a schoolboy that’s wandered into the legal section at the library.

“What are you doing here?” he asks and Richie turns, hands in his pockets.

“Hey, Eddie,” he says, smiling. There’s something awkward and sheepish about his expression. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. That was… something yesterday.”

Eddie realizes his hands have balled into fists and he consciously has to unclench them. “Yeah, it’s weird how people don’t like to be fucking mocked on camera.”

Richie hangs his head and sighs. “I’m really sorry, man. I can see that you were really hurting after that cake-dress challenge.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but Richie plows on. “Look, let me get you lunch. To make up for everything. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” Eddie isn’t sure why he agrees. Maybe it’s because he so badly doesn’t want to, but also Richie looks so genuinely apologetic, with his dark hair flopping over his five-head. Eddie turns around. “I’m gonna grab my shoes. This better be someplace nice.”

He hears Richie laugh softly. Different from his usual laugh on the show, which is loud and almost like a cackle crossed with a snort. This is low and warm and makes Eddie smile, despite himself.

***

“Does Roscoe’s count as nice?” Eddie asks as he steps out of Richie’s car. He’s too nervous to drive his own and besides, Richie has some douchey red sports car and Eddie has earned the right to just sit in the passenger’s seat and force Richie to make conversation. It’s payback.

Turns out that it’s not hard to fill a silence, because Richie literally doesn’t seem capable of shutting up. He talked for the entire drive, telling Eddie a bunch of bullshit about how he found the car and the ways he got it customized. He talked about how Stan chewed him out after they were done and how Bev and Ben get on his nerves because they’re “too fuckin' cute”. He talked about how he used to work at his college radio station and that’s how he met Bev Marsh, back when she was still with her “garbage ex”.

Finally, Eddie turned toward him, not annoyed so much as curious, and asked, “Do you always talk this much? How do they get you to shut up on the show?”

Richie grinned, seemingly delighted by any form of attention. “They pay me to.”

Now, standing outside the restaurant, Richie takes off his (presumably prescription) sunglasses and smiles over at Eddie, looking almost concerned. “Do you  _ not _ want chicken and waffles?”

Eddie scoffs. “I mean, obviously I’m not gonna say no, but I wouldn’t call this fine dining.”

“Fine dining is overrated,” Richie says and then jaywalks across the street, leaving Eddie no option but to jog after.

All the staff seem to know Richie and are delighted by his presence. Eddie wonders, as they’re led over to a booth, if this is what it’s like to be famous. Or maybe this is how it would be if Eddie just went out to eat regularly.

Richie sits down on one side and Eddie gingerly sits down opposite. He used to hate plastic booth seats, hated the way they made the sweat pool and how they stuck to his legs when he was wearing shorts. They always felt sticky and dirty, but his first girlfriend in college liked them, so he had to suck it up.

As the hostess heads off, Richie rests his chin on his palms and looks at Eddie intensely and says, “Tell me about your ex-wife.”

Eddie starts and glares at him. “What the fuck? No!”

“Aw, too bad,” Richie says, opening his menu. “I was super curious. That’s one of the reasons I begged Stan to ask you on.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “I thought it was because I was so fuckin’ funny.”

“That too,” Richie admits, adjusting his glasses. There’s something aggressively strange about his mannerisms that Eddie can’t put his finger on. “I’ll admit, I just thought you’d seem like someone fun to hang out with.”

“Me? Fun to hang out with?  _ That’s _ what you got from that video?”

“Are you not fun to hang out with?” Richie asks, looking confused.

“I mean -- That’s not -- ”

Richie takes pity on him. “How about you tell me about yourself, stud?”

And he winks.

Eddie feels his cheeks start to burn and he finds himself needing to look at anything but Richie Tozier’s weirdly wide smile. 

“I, uh, I grew up in Maine with my mom, who was fucking crazy and then I left to go to college and she died about two months before I graduated and then I met my wife -- My ex-wife, I mean. Then I moved out here because Myra wanted to live nearer to her parents and then I got divorced and now I live with my childhood friend who is richer than I can ever hope to be in my lifetime.” He looks up at Richie, daring him to say anything. “Is that funny enough for you?”

Before Richie can respond, their waiter comes over with their drinks: a diet Coke for Richie and a water with lemon for Eddie. They order, Eddie having to frantically look through the menu before he does, and then it’s just the two of them again, Richie still chewing on the inside of his lip thoughtfully.

“You seem like a guy that doesn’t like a lot of bullshit,” Richie starts after taking a sip of Coke.

“What gave it away?”

That earns him another smile. “I saw your video because I was getting high with Carrie -- she’s in charge of casting -- and your email came in, right? We tend to get a lot of really similar types on this show. Weird moms, overconfident guys who usually don’t know their ass from their elbow, disorganized girls and people in general who are looking for some spare cash. And all those emails tend to look the same.”

He leans forward, those bright, magnified eyes fixed on Eddie, who suddenly feels like a very hot spotlight has been centered on him. “Now, imagine you’re high as shit -- ”

“I’ve never gotten high.”

“Of course you haven’t. Imagine you’re a stupid and irresponsible TV show host and you’ve gotten very stoned and then an email comes in on your friend’s computer and, like… It’s like a business email, right? It literally starts with ‘ _ To whom it may concern’ _ .”

“How was I supposed to start it?” Eddie snaps, feeling very hot and bothered by Richie’s sudden proximity. His mind travels back to Richie fixing the gold baker’s cap for him and feels his cheeks burn. He tries his best Richie impression: “‘Hi assholes! It’s ya boy, Eddie Bitch-ass Kaspbrak!’”

Richie laughs at that, clapping his hands together in delight. “God, I’m just… You’re so fucking weird. You’ve really never gotten high?

“Like on weed?”

“Yes,” Richie says, overly kind with a thick note of snark. “Yes, Eds, on weed. Jesus Christ, I thought you lived in California.”

“I do! Look, I had a weed brownie once in college. All it did was give me an anxiety attack and I had to go to the hospital. It sucked. They called my mom and she tried to fly out to see me.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “That’s quite a mom.”

“Yeah, she sucked,” Eddie says, annoyed. Richie’s expression shifts at that, so Eddie plows on. “So because I was actually polite in my email and you were high… What? Where does that lead?”

“Right. So, I’m stoned as shit -- ”

“ _ I get that _ .”

“And Carrie pulls up this video of this weird guy who’s making fuckin’ Funfetti or something and he’s… fucking hilarious, honestly. Like, I almost had to go to the hospital, because that video  _ slayed _ me.”

Eddie remembers himself, sweaty and manic, on his cracked phone screen and he suddenly isn’t remotely hungry anymore.

“I’m glad I’m so funny,” he spits, tightly coiled and ready to strike.

“Carrie told me to wait, that we should rewatch it when we were sober. So the next day, I came back by her office and we watched it and it was still funny, even though you apparently hate that. So I called Stan and told him that you had to be on the show.” Richie drums his fingers against the laminate table. “So that’s it.”

It’s not the first time in his life that Eddie’s wished he knew how to fight. He’s been wishing that basically since he first started school, when his main tormentor, Henry Bowers, spotted him on the playground. That’s when Eddie first learned he could run fast, faster than Bowers and his goons. He ran until he got to the parking lot where he dived under a car and darted under it, like a lizard hiding from a snake.

He looks down at his hands in his lap, at the tiny scars that mark the paths of his veins.

“Look, what are you so mad about?” Richie ask and Eddie glares up at him, at his stupid broad shoulders, covered with a short-sleeved button-up that’s got what appear to be little  _ Spider-Man _ comic panels on it; at his stupid broad chest, that’s draped in a worn-out gray t-shirt. “Like, I’m really sorry. I just wanna understand, so I don’t do anything like this again.”

Eddie feels a sneer tugging at his lip. “I’m mad because you’re full of shit,  _ Tozier _ .”

Richie starts, looking genuinely taken aback. “Excuse?”

“I just… You…” God, he sounds like Bill -- choking on words that are coming too fast for him to get a handle on. “You’re just an asshole, okay? You’re a fuckin’ colossal asshole who likes to find fuckin’ crazy people to embarrass on your TV show.”

“Hey, Eds -- ”

“ _ Stop _ calling me that!”

“My apologies. Eddie Spaghetti -- ”

“God!”

Richie points at him, eyes flashing, and Eddie feels his breathing quicken. “ _ You _ agreed to be on the show. You auditioned in the first place. Like, I get it. You felt embarrassed. I’m fuckin’ sorry about that, but I’m trying to figure out what’s going on in that thick skull of yours so I can find out how to  _ fix _ it.”

“There’s no fixing it. You fuckin’ took advantage of me!”

Eddie doesn’t realize how loud he’s speaking until he notices the sudden silence in the restaurant following this outburst. A couple patrons are looking at him, some with obvious concern.

“Not… Not in a sexual way,” he calls and Richie snorts into his Coke, his eyes screwed shut. “Shut up.”

“That’s the shit that’s funny,” Richie says, gesturing towards Eddie. “I dunno how to explain it.”

“Is it so crazy that I don’t wanna be laughed at?” Eddie fumes.

“I dunno, Eds,” Richie says, pulling a face. “Are you crazy?”

That hurts for some reason, even though it’s said in probably the world’s worst Groucho Marx impression. He glares down at the lemon floating in his water and the waiter finally returns with their food.

Richie covers his entire plate in maple syrup and somehow he’s talking again, but Eddie’s pretty tuned out, just staring at the steam rising from his own food and wishing that he’d ordered something easier to eat cleanly.

“What made you wanna be on TV?” Eddie asks, interrupting Richie mid-sentence.

“Rude.”

“Answer me.”

“I dunno. Stan told me I should audition. I was just doing comedy shit at UCB and before that I worked at KROQ.”

“Gross.”

“Oh, what music do you listen to? The sound of the world’s tiniest violin?” Richie asks, demonstrating with his thumb and forefinger. “I also have a  _ podcast _ , Spaghetti. But I dunno. Stan just called me and told me to audition so I did.” He shrugs. “It helped that me and Mike had already met once or twice completely randomly, ‘cause he’s also pals with Ben and Bev, so we already had good chemistry. I think he probably vouched for me.”

“And you don’t have any work to be doing today?”

“I actually do. I’m actually -- Well, I guess not playing hooky. I had to call in a bunch of favors and pay to call off shooting today. Gloria and Sammy are also in hotels on my dime today.”

Eddie sits up at that. “What? Why?”

“Well, now that I’m sitting here with you, I have no idea,” Richie says, taking an enormous bite of waffle. He continues, with his mouth full, “But originally, it was ‘cause I liked you. You’re fuckin’ weird, but that’s good. You nearly gave Stan a heart attack with that ‘ladies and gentlemen’ comment. Not that he’s, like, homophobic or anything. Just that he has to handle more of the higher ups than I do, so you know that’s gonna be a headache. I like anyone that gives Stan a headache, to be honest.”

Eddie forgot he said that and he feels his face burn, but he doesn’t miss the stutter-step that Richie does around the word ‘homophobic’. 

“Does Stan give you headaches?” Eddie asks, trying to cut some of the meat off his drumstick.

Richie nods, struggling to swallow his most recent mouthful. “God, yes. Ever since we were kids. Fuckin’ rabbi’s son that my mom got to point to and go, ‘Richard, why aren’t you more like Stanley? He’s such a good boy!’” He says this last bit in a bad falsetto and Eddie can’t help but smile. “Thank God he met Patty in college. He got way more interesting after that.”

“How’s your ma feel about you being an asshole on TV for a living?” Eddie asks, taking a bite. Fuck. The chicken is really good.

“She’s fine with it. She and my dad don’t care what I do as long as I get  _ married _ someday.” Richie stabs at his waffle and Eddie feels another puzzle piece fall into place.

“What’s wrong with getting married?”

Richie freezes and fixes Eddie with a little he can’t read: something like curiosity crossed with malice. “Why’d you get married, Eddie?”

Eddie clenches his jaw and swallows. “My mom died. I was sad.”

“So you got married? You got some kinda oedipal thing going?”

“Look, asshole -- ”

“Forget it.” Richie waves Eddie’s words away. A bit of maple syrup drips on the table. Eddie looks at it, thinking about how that spot is going to be sticky later. “Why d’you get divorced?”

Eddie’s mouth goes dry. He’s not sure why he hasn’t left yet, called an Uber and pulled the ripcord on this stupid lunch. It’s like a contest with Richie, he feels like. Like it’s a stare down and he can’t bear -- out of stubbornness or something else -- to blink or look away.

“I had a long commute.”

Richie scoffs. “Please. You live in California. We’re all commuting. What’s the real reason? She cheat on you?”

Eddie’s grip tightens on his knife and fork. Unfortunately, Richie spots it.

“You cheat on her?”

“ _ No _ ,” Eddie says, sounding far too defensive. “I mean, I don’t think I did. She found a bunch of… I mean, it doesn’t matter.”

Richie narrows his eyes, like a cat that’s spotted a mouse on its turf. “What’d she find, Eds?”

“She found your mom in bed with me,” Eddie snaps and Richie chokes on his food from laughing. “Does that make you happy? Why don’t you get married, huh?”

Richie shrugs a little too nonchalantly and then he sighs. “You’re cute, Eds. Look, come back and finish the episode. Please? Don’t let me have wasted my money for nothing. I think you’re a neat person. I think people would really dig your whole vibe.”

“My  _ vibe _ ?”

“Or whatever. Come on. Don’t make me look all pathetic in my favorite restaurant."

***

The day Eddie married Myra, he had to use his inhaler four times. First, because Myra’s dad and some of Eddie’s Polish cousins were smoking cigars outside the church. Second, because he was allergic to some of the bright yellow blossoms she had included in her bouquet, so her maid of honor ended up having to carry it around for most of the reception, much to Myra’s annoyance. Third, because he was absolutely freaking the fuck out before their first dance. And last, because Bill decided to get stoned in the bathroom with one of the other groomsmen while Eddie was taking a piss.

By the end of the day, his hands were trembling so badly he could barely drive. His heart seemed to hammer out of his chest and Myra was complaining next to him about how her Aunt Alice had been behaving.

His uncle told him that this was normal. No one has the wedding they really think they’ll have. It’s always stressful and unpleasant and confusing.

So Eddie was baffled at Bill and Audra’s wedding, where they were both so fucking  _ happy _ . Even when their families were weird, even when Eddie cursed during his Best Man speech and even when Audra twisted her ankle during their first dance -- they were both happy and laughing together.

It was the first time Eddie realized that he wasn’t happy. The first time he realized that he wasn’t even sure what happiness really felt like inside him.

And he felt like he was drowning.

***

Richie comes to pick Eddie up the next day, sunglasses on and Prince blasting out his speakers.

“‘Little Red Corvette’ is kinda on the nose, isn’t it?” Eddie says, getting into the passenger’s seat. He’s brought the apron with him, but Richie texted him the night before to let him know he didn’t need to bring the same clothes.

_ me and Stan worked out a way to shoot it. _ his message read,  _ Ill let u know tmrw _

“You got a problem with Prince?” Richie asks. “What is wrong with you?

“I don’t -- Oh my God, just drive,” Eddie says, putting on his seat belt.

The drive is more fun in Richie’s car. Maybe because his engine is practically silent and the bass on his speakers thuds so deep that Eddie can feel it in his bones. Maybe it’s because he’s able to get into the carpool lane the moment they jump on the freeway and Eddie gets a nice view of Richie, leaned back with one hand draped over the steering wheel.

Richie chews gum while he drives and, when he’s not talking incessantly, he’s crooning badly along with the radio and drumming his fingers to the music. 

For a moment, Eddie allows himself to forget where they’re going and just enjoys the view.

***

Eddie tries his best to apologize to Gloria and Sammy. And to Em. And Midge. And Bev, who is probably the worst of all because he’s definitely going to have to see her at some point in the future. He apologizes last to Mike and Stan, who are chatting together off to one side. Stan just nods as Eddie speaks, but Mike just waves it off.

“Look, we’ve been making this show for a couple years and I think some people have a harder time than others,” he says and Eddie wonders how Richie is the one with a background in radio when Mike has a voice like this. “It’s not easy, making mistakes and knowing other people will see them, but that’s how you grow.”

“Damn, where was that when I mixed up cumin and coriander,” Stan says, looking at Mike with a raised eyebrow.

“You produce a cooking show. You don’t get to make mistakes like that,” Mike retorts, not even sparing Stan a glance, and Eddie has to try not to laugh.

The judging goes pretty much as he expected. He doesn’t win, but Gloria does and he’s happy for her. Mike is, as to be expected, extremely kind about Eddie’s cake and how upset he got.

Eddie, for his part, just tries to be polite and apologizes again. Bev smiles at him kindly.

It all kind of sucks, but he feels better for having done it.

Eventually, it comes time for what Eddie was looking forward to the least: his interview.

He’s sitting against a plain backdrop, his nose still stinging from a fresh layer of powder from Midge. The whole thing feels like being sent to the principal’s office. There’s even a rosy scent in the powder that reminds him of the secretary’s potpourri. His feet would hover off the ground as he waited in one of the stiff chairs, chest aching from anxiety.

But this time his mom isn’t going to burst into the office, already shouting about the school staff unfairly targeting her son. The humiliating cries of Sonia Kaspbrak, barrating anyone who would listen about how fragile and precious her boy is, how they were trying to slander his character.

But this is now and Eddie is an adult, which means he can humiliate himself just fine. Unfortunately, that means he also has to actually try and explain himself.

As the camera operator sets up, he watches Bev and Mike chat cheerfully at the other end of the studio and he wishes --

“Hi! Sorry, I wanted to be here for this one.”

It’s Richie, carrying a chair under one arm, looking as ridiculous as ever in the gaudy shirt he’s been stuffed back into. The bright red glasses only emphasise the smallness of his nose. He looks fucking stupid.

Eddie smiles.

Richie sets up his chair and sits down, crossing his legs and sitting obnoxiously straight. He pretends to shuffle some cards and then looks up at Eddie.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here this evening, Mrs. Kaspbrak,” Richie says and Eddie has to work not to laugh.

“Fuck you. Also, who the fuck was that supposed to be?” he asks and he can hear the camera operator snort.

“James Lipton, dude.  _ Inside the Actors Studio _ ?” 

“No, I’ve watched it. Your impressions just suck.”

Richie gasps, but looks delighted. The camera operator is shaking. “Eddie Spaghetti! I came here to support you and this is how you treat me?”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Eddie asks and something in him feels a little lighter at that, a little more relaxed.

“Yeah, of course,” Richie says like it’s obvious and Eddie almost sobs. “I won’t bother you, right, Brie?”

Brie, the camera operator, shakes her head and hands him the list of questions. “I’m already covering for Tim, so help yourself.”

“Thank you!” Richie flips through the list. “Okay, let’s go. Are you rolling, Brie?”

“Rolling.”

A nervous-looking young man snaps the slate like it’s a movie and Eddie jumps from the sound. He can see Richie trying to suppress a laugh.

“Alright, I want you to introduce yourself, where you’re from and what your job is.”

He tries to just focus on Richie, even though his voice is still as weirdly nasal as it was the first time Eddie heard it; tries to focus on his wide mouth and his small nose, on the way his large hands fidget with the questions on his lap.

“My name is Edward Kaspbrak and I work as an insurance adjuster in Los Angeles.”

“What’s an insurance adjuster do?” Richie asks, flipping forward through the pages.

“Basically, when someone has an accident, it’s my job to -- ”

Richie lets out a long, loud snore and Eddie shakes his head, biting his lower lip. 

“Asshole.”

“Okay, okay, seriously, though.” Richie is chuckling to himself and Eddie has to work not to smile with him.

(A part of him starts at that. When in the past forty-eight hours did Richie’s smile become infectious?)

They work their way through the questions, Richie basically guiding Eddie through explaining his thought process during the first challenge. He snorts with laughter when Eddie says he knew Sammy was toast from her Rice Krispie treats.

“Believe me, it’s not the worst thing I’ve eaten during this show.”

“What’s the worst?”

Richie fixes him with a distant, mournful look. “Imagine raw cookie dough, but with enough salt to dry up a lake. And then your teeth break through an enormous piece of egg shell.” He looks a little nauseous just thinking about it and Eddie gets a happy spike of Schadenfreude, until Richie fixes him with those sharp, magnified eyes and says, “It tasted just like your mom’s pussy.”

“You are so gross!” he shouts, but Richie is cackling again.

“Okay, okay. Going into Nail It or Fail It, what’re you thinking? Present tense. Don’t forget.”

Eddie opens his mouth, then falters. “I was… I mean, I’m feeling pretty confident, but then I start to get distracted and… Um. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

It’s only partly a lie. He felt so much like he was drowning while making his cake that it’s hard to remember any of it. Like trying to listen to voices when sitting under water. All of it feels distant, like it happened years and years ago instead of the day before yesterday.

He’s hyperventilating a bit and then --

“Hey, it’s okay, Eds.”

Richie Tozier’s voice shouldn’t be capable of sounding gentle, but there’s a careful hesitation to it that makes Eddie feel incredibly raw. One of his too large hands has reached towards Eddie, as though to land on his thigh, before Richie starts back. And Eddie glances up, his eyes locking with Richie’s, and he catches a flicker of something.

He feels like he almost has the full puzzle, but he’s still missing a few crucial pieces.

There’s a familiar itch, the desire to dig into a mystery and see it through to the end. He feels an oft-neglected part of his brain ignite and he finds himself fighting an urge to lean closer.

“Sorry. What?” He shakes his head to clear it and Richie smiles.

“How about… Uh…” Richie flips through the pages. “God, why is this font so small?”

“No disrespect, but it was printed for someone who’s not legally blind,” Brie says, her eye still pressed to the camera lens. Richie gapes at her and she grins.

“Rude. Okay. Eddie, uh… Describe putting the cake together.”

Eddie takes a deep breath.

Step one: make the cake batter. Step two: get the cake in the oven.

Going through like that, trying hard to forget the camera that’s pointed at his face, he gets through it. Richie has to prompt him every now and then, but the further he gets in, the easier it gets.

“But why d’you run off?” Richie asks, resting the list of questions on his lap. Eddie tries to quench the hot embarrassment that rises in his gut.

“I was embarrassed when… when you laughed.” The words rip themselves from his chest and Eddie has to look down. His hands are clenched uselessly in his lap, his knuckles turning that sickly yellowish color, his fingertips pink.

A moment and then Richie speaks, “Do you want to know why I laughed? It wasn’t because of you. It was just the way it fell, it was -- ”   


Eddie shakes his head and looks back up. “Uh… Is there anything else to talk about?”

Richie deflates a little and looks down at the questions. “Um… Yeah, uh. During the judging, what’s happening then?”

“Oh.” Eddie isn’t really sure how to process what just happened between them, so he pushes forward. “I mean, I knew -- Fuck. I  _ know _ I’m probably not winning. Unless someone else has really messed up. My cake has a dry-ass bottom with no top, so -- ”

Richie chuckles softly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -- ”

“No, it’s fine. Uh, are we done?”

“Yeah,” Richie says and he seems much younger than before. “Yeah, I think that’s everything. Thanks, Brie.” He passes the pages back to her.

“No problem, boss.”

Eddie stands up and Richie stands too. Eddie has to crane his neck back again to look at his face and he can feel his heart start to beat fast. The air in the studio suddenly feels much too thick, too stale.

“Well, I gotta go.”

“Oh,” Richie says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He seems very much like a teenager and, for a moment, Eddie gets a glimpse at the adolescent he must’ve been: mouthy and flippant, but desperately uncomfortable in his own skin. “Yeah, I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says and he has to force himself not to look back at Richie as they head out of the studio.

***

Richie is silent as they drive back. He’s not fiddling with the radio or the AC. He’s not nattering endlessly about whatever thought has just popped into his apparently exceptionally cluttered mind. He’s sitting up straight, hands at ten and two, eyes on the road.

He’s changed back into his previous outfit, but he looks so much like an overgrown teenage boy that Eddie almost wants to laugh at him.

But it’s hard to laugh at Richie when he’s chewing the inside of his lip, his expression stony.

“Where are you from?” he asks, after thirty minutes of silence in stand-still traffic. Richie glances over at him, looking strangely suspicious. “Are you from LA?”

“Oh God, no.” Richie’s shoulders are still tensed. Eddie wonders if this is what he looks like all the time. “No, I’m from back east. I actually lived in Maine too, for a little bit. We traveled a lot when I was growing up.”

“Where in Maine did you live?” Eddie asks, sitting up a little straighter.

“Uh… Like, a little bit outside Bangor. About half an hour west.”

“No shit,” Eddie says, flopping back in his chair. He glances to his right and sees a group of young women dancing to the radio.

“What?”

“I grew up in Derry. We were only, like, thirty minutes from each other.”

Richie laughs at that. “Really? That’s fucking crazy. I remember Derry. I went on a field trip there once.”

“Where to?”

“I think we went to see the old mine or factory. Something.”

Eddie remembers when his class took a field trip there. His mother refused to sign his slip. Even though the site had since been turned into a museum, her concern about residual particles of coal dust getting his lungs outweighed Eddie’s pleas. He spent the day at his desk, stuck watching educational films from the 1960’s about how plants reproduce.

“How did that go?”

“Uh, I may have gotten in trouble for pretending to jerk off at one of the mannequins. Who can say?” He’s smiling a little. “What did you usually do on field trips?”

“I, um. I don’t really remember.” On the few he was allowed to attend, he mostly just hung back with Bill and tried to avoid the ire of any bullies, but that doesn’t seem terribly interesting by comparison. “I didn’t really get to go on a lot of them.”

“Why?” Richie asks, but Eddie purposefully ignores him.

“You know, there’s an Italian place near my office.” Eddie’s chest feels incredibly tight, just dropping the hint, but he’s relieved to see Richie smile.

“Is that your idea of subtle? Lemme guess: it’s wicked expensive.”

“You know it is,” Eddie says, leaning back in his seat. Someone further back on the road honks.

Richie shakes his head, but he seems to relax a little. His right hand travels over to fiddle with the radio, eventually landing on…

“ _ In the day, we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream... _ ” Richie sings into an imaginary microphone, mumbling a bad Springsteen impression. Eddie grins.

“You tacky fuck.”

“Show some respect, Eduardo. That’s The Boss right there!”

“Oh yeah? And is Elvis ‘The King’?”

“To someone, probably.” Richie shrugs, seeming much more cheerful now that Eddie’s fighting with him a little. “What music do you normally listen to?”

Eddie considers that. “I guess just whatever’s on.”

Richie makes a face. “How are you that easy going on music but are so wound up about literally everything else?”

“How are you legally able to drive in those fuckin’ x-ray specs?”

A car starts to pull into the carpool lane in front of them and Richie has to brake sharply.

“Fuckin’ distracting the driver,” he says and tsks disapprovingly. Eddie grins and, before he can stop himself, he shoves an elbow into Richie’s side.

Richie starts, glancing over at Eddie, his eyes wide and his expression wary. It’s just a split second, but just like that, Eddie feels the puzzle become clear.

A buzz rushes through his system. A sliver of something, that moment of:  _ Oh, you too? _ His face burns with the thought. Eddie has always been carefully and studiously attracted to straight guys. Richie is so fucking annoying, but he’s tall and sometimes when he laughs Eddie feels like a balloon is blowing up inside him. And what if…?

But Richie doesn’t like Eddie. They barely even know each other. He thinks Eddie’s “funny”. He thinks Eddie is pathetic and stupid and  _ funny _ , so it doesn’t matter.

He remembers, when he was six, asking his mom about his dad and she took him in her arms and told him, her voice hot against his ear, that people like them weren’t made for loving. People wouldn’t understand them. Eddie, in particular, was too fragile for the harsh ways of the world. She thanked God and all the saints everyday for giving her a son, someone who would understand her. Someone like her.

The suffocating scent of her perfume, the itch of her hair on the back of his neck as she held him close. He was much too delicate. Girls didn’t like delicate boys.

He thinks about what Dr. Martin said.

“What’re you thinking about?” Richie asks and Eddie blinks, startled.

“Uh, nothing.” He shakes his head.

“You sure? You look weird.” Richie glances over at him. Traffic has eased somewhat. Eddie glances at a passing exit. At this rate, they’ll be back at Bill’s in half an hour.

“Jesus, yes. I’m fine.” He feels itchy. He should’ve rinsed off his face before they started driving home. His skin is oily from having make-up put on it. He probably looks like a fucking clown.

“What’s the name of this restaurant?” Richie asks. “Do you know how to get there?”

Fuck. He did say that, didn’t he? “Uh, I mean, the exit is coming up though.”

“Which one?” Richie asks, putting on his turn signal, even though they’re on the double lines. Eddie grimaces.

Richie navigates across five lanes of traffic, one hand braced against Eddie’s seat so he can turn to check his blind spot. Eddie feels a little like he’s stuck underwater, but he helps Richie find the turns until they pull into an underground parking garage where Eddie usually parks for work. Hands shaking, he climbs out. The air is stale and reeks of exhaust down here. They climb up the filthy set of stairs and Eddie immediately takes off in the direction of the restaurant.

He used to be a fast runner, but he finds that a brisk walk tends to get him most places soon enough, so he’s surprised when they arrive at the shop front and Richie is still loping behind him, having easily kept pace.

Stupid tall idiot.

The host finds them a booth, at Richie’s request. Eddie sits awkwardly. All his nerve endings seem to be doubly sensitive since he elbowed Richie and his mouth seems to be producing half as much saliva.

Richie picks up the menu and looks at him.

“I hate you.”

Eddie tries not to, but he smiles. He flips open his own, even as Richie mumbles something about this just being a “pretentious Olive Garden”.

Richie orders red wine and Eddie glances at him.

“You wanna share a bottle? I can’t drink it alone,” Richie says, like it’s a completely normal question and Eddie feels his chest burn.

“Yeah, I’ll share it.”

That’s how, thirty minutes later, Eddie’s had two glasses of wine, even as Richie watches him with wide eyes. He rationalizes it easily -- he’s not driving and he deserves it after the last couple days -- but it’s mostly an attempt to make his skin stop screaming as they continue their stilted conversation.

Finally, when Richie glances around for the waiter’s return for the fifteenth time, Eddie spits it out.

“What’s your problem with marriage?”

“Huh?” Richie looks genuinely confused and Eddie tries not to blow up.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” he snaps, but he doesn’t miss Richie’s glance toward the wine bottle. “Yes, I’m a lightweight, but don’t -- Listen. Why did you really like the video? My video. Was it… Was it just ‘cause I’m… I’m…”

He can’t bring himself to say it. Richie bites the inside of his lip again before taking a sip of wine.

“I know it sounds cliche…” he starts carefully, looking past Eddie’s left shoulder, like he can’t look Eddie in the eye.

(Why does that hurt?)

Richie fidgets with the hem of his cloth napkin and continues. “Look, it’s true what everyone says: show business is really fake and everyone has their own bullshit going on. But no one is gonna talk about that bullshit, so you always feel really… alone. Like, you’re the only one with stuff that you carry around.

“But you filmed this whole thing -- a fucking  _ audition _ \-- where you just… laid it all out there. And it was funny and stupid and it just. It’s a breath of fresh air, you know?” He looks at Eddie again and suddenly the magnification of his glasses makes Eddie’s breath catch, like he’s an ant under the sun and Richie’s going to burn him alive.

He swallows. “So you liked it because I aired all my dirty laundry.”

“No, God, it’s just… You just seemed like a blast to hang out with and you are so far when you’re not being all weird and feeling sorry for yourself.”

Eddie glares at him. “Why don’t you lay it all out,  _ Tozier _ ?”

Richie squints at him. “Huh?”

Eddie leans forward, feeling a rush of (admittedly low proof) liquid courage. “Why don’t you give me that breath of fresh air and tell me what you’re not telling me?”

It makes more sense in his head, but Richie still seems helplessly confused.

“I own every  _ Street Fighter _ game ever made?” he says and Eddie scoffs.

“First of all, not what I meant. And second, really? Why?”

“They’re good games.” Richie shrugs. “What are you talking about?”

Eddie clenches his fists, resisting the urge to slap the table in frustration. “You can’t talk all this shit about being so  _ happy _ to see someone being open about their garbage life and be this fucking obtuse.” Eddie feels like a piece of elastic, stretched too far and starting to fray. “You know all my bullshit. Tell me yours.”

“What?”

That does it. Eddie smacks the table and a couple patrons glance over at them, looking concerned.

“You know what. I guess you don’t know everything. So here it is. I’ll show you mine, you show me yours. My wife divorced me because she thought I cheated on her because I watched a lot of gay porn. My best friend thinks I’m so fucking pathetic, he won’t let me pay rent. My mother apparently had Munchausen by proxy, which I didn’t even know what the fuck that was two weeks ago until my therapist decided to drop that juicy info on me. And -- and you.” He points a shaking finger at Richie, who looks like he’s just been slapped. “You can’t even say why you won’t get married, even though I think I have a fucking solid guess. So tell me  _ one thing _ about yourself, Tozier. One thing that matters.”

Richie stares at him, his eyes wide, his mouth half-open.

“Here you go, gentlemen,” the waiter says, clearly either unaware of Eddie’s outburst or simply not paid enough to care. “Would you like to order your main courses now? Or would you like more time with the menu?"

“More time, please,” Eddie says quickly. Richie’s gaze has lowered to the table, where he’s still fidgeting with the napkin. As the waiter leaves, Eddie leans close and is disgusted to hear his own voice shake, “Just tell me one thing so I don’t feel so fucking pathetic.”

Richie looks up at him and he looks very old all of a sudden, the hollows of his face filled with shadow. Slowly and softly, sounding almost like he’s sitting in a confessional, he begins to speak.

“When I was twelve, I got a crush on… So there was this guy at the school I was going to at the time and for whatever reason, he had a huge problem with me. Like, I could not breathe within a hundred yards of this fool without getting my ass kicked. He, uh, he would always call me, you know, all the usual f-words, which I guess means he figured it out before me. And one summer, I met this kid at the arcade, with hair kinda like -- Remember that, like, stupid, curly-but-gelled boyband hair?”

Eddie breathes out a laugh and nods. Richie gives him a thin smile.

“Anyway, I thought they… I thought  _ he _ was the most amazing person. Like, I wanted to spend all my time at the arcade with -- with him and then, one day, I go… What if I asked him to a movie? What’s the harm? Well, he… he doesn’t like that. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s how I said it.” Richie looks down at the napkin in his hands. “Anyway, he’s like, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ And I say, ‘Nothing.’ And who should come into the arcade to pick this kid up but my old bully. Apparently, the kid is his cousin, because I can really pick ‘em. Anyway, we moved about a couple months later, so it didn’t really matter.”

He shrugs uncomfortably and Eddie finds himself frozen, just stuck watching Richie compose himself.

“And it was so funny, because the last place we’d lived was Maine, right near Bangor and right after we moved there was when Charlie Howard was killed.”

Eddie nods. He remembers that he found the story frightening for a lot of reasons that at the time he didn’t have a name for, but being particularly frightened when he learned that part of the reason Charlie couldn’t keep running away was because of his asthma. That’s when he started taking his mother’s commands much more seriously. After all, if he had to run and he didn’t have his inhaler, what was he supposed to do?

Richie takes a strange breath in and Eddie realizes that his eyes are full of tears. He reaches out for Richie’s hand, but Richie flinches back.

“I knew even then, a little bit,” he says, putting the napkin back down on the table. His nose is pink and he starts to load his plate with calamari. “I never was interested in girls. They seemed like fuckin’ space aliens to me. And I only wanted to be Maid Marian, like in the Disney cartoon.”

Eddie laughs at that. He feels bad, so bad that part of him is sure the guilt is going to crush his chest.

“You don’t have to -- ” he starts, but Richie cuts him off.

“It’s fine.” He dips one in marinara furiously. “Anyway, Charlie Howard died and then that happened later in New Jersey and I just felt like, ‘Great. This is my life. For whatever reason, I get to feel like a freak  _ and _ I can die horribly.’ And as for getting married… My mom is the child of Holocaust survivors. What am I supposed to tell her? ‘Congratulations. You’re never getting a grandchild. Don’t you wish you hadn’t had that miscarriage?’” He’s spitting his words now. He reaches for the wine bottle and refills his glass, his hands shaking. “And then we move and I start hanging around Stan The Perfect, Stan The Rabbi’s Son, and she starts thinking I’ll somehow turn out to be a good kid. But I just keep disappointing her!  _ I _ just keep being Richie  _ Trashmouth _ Tozier, the great gay loss.”

“Richie, I get it. My parents -- Well, my mom -- ” Eddie takes a breath. “I mean, it’s not the same. But thank you for telling me.”

“You know,” Richie says, after taking far too long a drink of wine. “I actually tried to come out. Like, on the show? I wrote a joke about it. Just a little thing, blink and you miss it. But it seemed like a better idea than talking to my parents directly. And then, it got rewritten. And they made Stan come and explain to me that it ‘wasn’t that kind of show’. Like, it’s Netflix. Their slogan may as well be ‘ _ Netflix: We’ve got queers _ ’. But, nope.” He tosses a piece of calamari in his mouth. “Not that kinda show.”

Eddie nods even though he has no idea what that feels like. Richie fixes him with a look, a kind of meanness crossing his face.

“Is that enough for you, Eds? Or do I need to talk about my first wet dream now?”

“No,” Eddie says softly. “I just… I wanted us to be on an equal playing field.”

That seems to take the wind out of Richie’s sails. He slumps back against the booth, looking as tired as Eddie feels.

Step one: make everyone feel just as shitty and hopeless as you do -- done.

“The worst thing is that I…” He shakes his head and picks up the menu. “Do you know what you want?”

The switch makes Eddie think of the time he and Bill were playing the jungle gym. The time he fell flat on his back and all the air in his lungs was pushed out in one big  _ whoosh _ . And how he lay there, staring at the sun, trying to take that next breath -- how he was convinced his lungs would never inflate again.

“Uh, no,” he says and Richie gestures to Eddie’s menu.

“I would recommend the fish for  _ monsieur _ ,” Richie says in the worst French accent Eddie’s ever heard. He chokes on his laughter and is left for a moment, coughing and sputtering.

“God, you suck.”

“Yeah, well, I hate being myself,” Richie says, so off-hand that Eddie almost misses it. He gives an exaggerated shiver as Eddie looks up at him. “Ugh, having to be honest. Ugh, not getting to be a character of my own creation. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.” He shudders with each  _ ugh _ , as though trying to shake the sincerity out of his own body.

“I mean, we all hate that,” Eddie says, picking up his menu with pursed lips. “But not all of us get to fake it on TV for money.”

Richie smirks. “No, you just fake it at your boring insurance job. For money.”

“Well, yeah,” Eddie says. “Do you think they do a pesto without cashews?”

“I have no idea, Eds. You recommended this place.”

They fall into silence for a moment, looking through the menu and its too many options. Richie keeps muttering something about how  _ they wouldn’t have had this problem at Roscoe’s _ and Eddie has to try and keep a straight face.

The waiter comes. They order. Richie looks at him, thoughtfully.

“What’re you thinking about?” Eddie asks and, in a move he’ll likely regret the next day, pours himself more wine and finishes the bottle.

“What we do from here,” Richie says, grimacing at the empty bottle. “Dick move, by the way.”

“You’re driving.”

“Yeah and I’m a celebrity.”

“C-list,  _ at best _ .”

Richie snorts. “Fuck. This sucks.”

The balloon behind Eddie’s ribcage that’s been slowly reinflating since Richie called him  _ Eds _ again pops.

“Oh,” is all he can bring himself to say. He shouldn’t be disappointed. What did he think was going to happen? He can blame the trauma he’s known and understood for decades even more it had a name, but Eddie can ruin even the potential of a kinship all by himself.

“Stop thinking so much, Eddie,” Richie says, examining one of the salt shakers. “You always get weird after.”

Eddie prays Richie and Dr. Martin never ever meet. The two of them would eviscerate him in just a few sentences.

“Well, what sucks then?” he snaps and Richie rolls his eyes.

“You don’t suck, asshole.” Richie replaces the salt shaker with a  _ thunk _ . “This whole thing just sucks. We know too much about each other. What do we do from here?”

Eddie swallows the cowardice he’s sheltered in for the majority of his life and sits up a little straighter. “What do you want to do from here?”

Richie groans and rubs his face under his glasses. “Don’t make me say it, Eddie Spaghetti. It’s no fun that way.” His face is all pink now from his hands and Eddie feels something warm rise through his chest.

“Do you wanna be my friend?” he asks and Richie snorts.

“No, I absolutely do not wanna be your friend,” he says sarcastically, but there’s something real there too. And Eddie --

“I don’t know if I wanna be yours either.”

Richie cocks his head, a smile playing on his face. “Well, let’s see how we feel after two full plates of pasta.”

***

Step one: acquire a boyfriend that’s exactly as fucked up as you.

It takes Eddie less than six months.

Less than six months later, he’s not that different a person. He still has, per Richie Tozier, “the world’s most boring job.” He still lives in his childhood best friend’s old attic. He still hasn’t bought a new computer.

(Richie buys one for him instead. Eddie is disgusted. It’s too much, but Richie just shrugs and gestures towards his car. “Do I look like a man that knows how to budget?”)

Less than half a year later, he’s packing up all his clothes and the miscellaneous baking supplies he has acquired -- including the stand mixer -- and tossing it all into the back of his car. Bill is disappointed.

“Who’s gonna keep me fed now, Eddie?” he complains, carrying one of the laundry baskets Eddie bought when he realized Bill didn’t have any. “And Audra.”

“You could literally paper a room with how many take out menus are in your kitchen,” Eddie snaps back. “Also,  _ paper menus _ , dude. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“Your boyfriend’s a bad influence,” Bill says, leaning against the roof of Eddie’s car. Eddie runs a finger over his still-dented front bumper. “I don’t remember you saying ‘dude’ before this. Next thing you know you’re gonna be dressing like an asshole too.”

Eddie smiles. “Nah, I think I’ll be okay on that front.”

A couple months ago, Eddie dragged Bill out of his office and went to Richie’s July 4th party where he learned that he actually can get along with people who aren’t Bill or his therapist. He learned that Richie’s circle of friends is delighted to intersect and it turned out Bev and Ben had been trying to get everyone to meet for ages before. And Stan rolled his eyes and Bill laughed as Bev playfully slapped his cheek. Richie was drinking a cocktail while sitting on the windowsill in his much too modern apartment and watching Eddie with eyes that still make Eddie feel like an ant under a magnifying glass.

Step two: move into said boyfriend’s apartment.

And less than half a year after he taped his audition, Eddie and Richie carry all of his earthly possessions into that much too modern apartment. Richie tries to carry him over the threshold and Eddie almost punches him in the face. Luckily, Richie thinks that’s hilarious.

And a few hours after that, they’re tangled together on Richie’s ridiculous memory foam mattress that Eddie loves more than he’ll ever admit and Richie is drawing shapes on Eddie’s skin with one of his too big fingers.

“Hey Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I know you’re gay.”

Richie laughs and bites the inside of his lip. He looks stupid: completely naked except for those enormous glasses.

“Not that,” he says, resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. His stubble makes Eddie’s skin itch sometimes, but right now, he can’t bring it in himself to mind. “You wanna know the real, honest to God reason I wanted you to be on the show?”

Eddie looks at him, suspicious. Dr. Martin’s been working with him on not leaping to the worst conclusion, but it’s still a struggle. “What?”

Richie leans in close, his breath tickling Eddie’s cheek, and whispers in his ear, “Because I thought you were cute.”

Eddie cackles and shoves him off. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You were cute! You had flour on your nose. It looked like cocaine.” Richie makes a great show of rubbing at his nostrils.

“Yeah, well, when I first saw the show, I thought you were ugly.”

Richie freezes at that. “You didn’t.”

Eddie rolls onto his side, turning away from Richie’s shocked face. “I did.”   


But then Richie launches himself on top of him. “Take it back!” And Eddie is laughing and, for a moment, he’s happier than he ever thought was possible. The deep, satisfying happiness of a job well done.

Step three: try to enjoy yourself for once, dumbass.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading my madness! Please review and if you want to reach out on other platforms, I'm @annamcb24 on twitter <3


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